Gideon’s Sword

Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child

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We dedicate this book
to our most excellent literary agent,
Eric Simonoff.

Melvin Crew

1

August 1988

Nothing in his twelve years of life had prepared Gideon Crew for that day. Every insignificant detail, every trivial gesture, every sound and smell, became frozen as if in a block of glass, unchanging and permanent, ready to be examined at will.

His mother was driving him home from his tennis lesson in their Plymouth station wagon. It was a hot day, well up in the nineties, the kind where clothes stick to one’s skin and sunlight has the texture of flypaper. Gideon had turned the dashboard vents onto his face, enjoying the rush of cold air. They were driving on Route 27, passing the long cement wall enclosing Arlington National Cemetery, when two motorcycle cops intercepted their car, one pulling ahead, the other staying behind, sirens wailing, red lights turning. The one in front motioned with a black-gloved hand toward the Columbia Pike exit ramp; once on the ramp, he signaled for Gideon’s mother to pull over. There was none of the slow deliberation of a routine traffic stop—instead, both officers hopped off their motorcycles and came running up.

“Follow us,” said one, leaning in the window. “Now.”

“What’s this all about?” Gideon’s mother asked.

“National security emergency. Keep up—we’ll be driving fast and clearing traffic.”

“I don’t understand—”

But they were already running back to their motorcycles.

Sirens blaring, the officers escorted them down Columbia Pike to George Mason Drive, forcing cars aside as they went. They were joined by more motorcycles, squad cars, and finally an ambulance: a motorcade that screamed through the traffic-laden streets. Gideon didn’t know whether to be thrilled or scared. Once they turned onto Arlington Boulevard, he could guess where they were going: Arlington Hall Station, where his father worked for INSCOM, the United States Army Intelligence and Security Command.

Police barricades were up over the entrance to the complex, but they were flung aside as the motorcade pulled through. They went shrieking down Ceremonial Drive and came to a halt at a second set of barricades, beside a welter of fire trucks, police cars, and SWAT vans. Gideon could see his father’s building through the trees, the stately white pillars and brick façade set among emerald lawns and manicured oaks. It had once been a girls’ finishing school and still looked it. A large area in front had been cleared. He could see two sharpshooters lying on the lawn, behind a low hummock, rifles deployed on bipods.

His mother turned to him and said, fiercely, “Stay in the car. Don’t get out, no matter what.” Her face was gray and strained, and it scared him.

She stepped out. The phalanx of cops bulled through the crowd ahead of her and they disappeared.

She’d forgotten to turn off the engine. The air-conditioning was still going. Gideon cranked down a window, the car filling with the sounds of sirens, walkie-talkie chatter, shouts. Two men in blue suits came running past. A cop hollered into a radio. More sirens drifted in from afar, coming from every direction.

He heard the sound of a voice over an electronic megaphone, acidic, distorted. “Come out with your hands in view.”

The crowd immediately hushed.

“You are surrounded. There is nothing you can do. Release your hostage and come out now.”

Another silence. Gideon looked around. The attention of the crowd was riveted on the front door of the station. That, it seemed, was where things would play out.

“Your wife is here. She would like to speak to you.”

A buzz of fumbled static came through the sound system and then the electronically magnified sound of a partial sob, grotesque and strange. “Melvin?” Another choking sound. “MELVIN?”

Gideon froze. That’s my mother’s voice, he thought.

It was like a dream where nothing made sense. It wasn’t real. Gideon put his hand on the door handle and opened it, stepping into the stifling heat.

“Melvin…” A choking sound. “Please come out. Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise. Please let the man go.” The voice over the megaphone was harsh and alien—and yet unmistakably his mother’s.

Gideon advanced through the clusters of police officers and army officers. No one paid him any attention. He made his way to the outer barricade, placed a hand on the rough, blue-painted wood. He stared in the direction of Arlington Hall but could see nothing stirring in the placid façade or on the immediate grounds cleared of people. The building, shimmering in the heat, looked dead. Outside, the leaves hung limply on the oak branches, the sky flat and cloudless, so pale it was almost white.

“Melvin, if you let the man go, they’ll listen to you.”

More waiting silence. Then there was a sudden motion at the front door. A plump man in a suit Gideon didn’t recognize came stumbling out. He looked around a moment, disoriented, then broke into a run toward the barricades, his thick legs churning. Four helmeted officers rushed out, guns drawn; they seized the man and hustled him back behind one of the vans.

Gideon ducked under the barricade and moved forward through the groups of cops, the men with walkie-talkies, the men in uniform. Nobody noticed him, nobody cared: all eyes were fixed on the front entrance to the building.

And then a faint voice rang out from inside the doorway. “There must be an investigation!”

It was his father’s voice. Gideon paused, his heart in his throat.

“I demand an investigation! Twenty-six people died!”

A muffled, amplified fumbling, then a male voice boomed from the sound system. “Dr. Crew, your concerns will be addressed. But you must come out now with your hands up. Do you understand? You must surrender now.”

“You haven’t listened,” came the trembling voice. His father sounded frightened, almost like a child. “People died and nothing was done! I want a promise.”

“That is a promise.”

Gideon had reached the innermost barricade. The front of the building remained still, but he was now close enough to see the door standing half open. It was a dream; at any moment he would wake up. He felt dizzy from the heat, felt a taste in his mouth like copper. It was a nightmare—and yet it was real.

And then Gideon saw the door swing inward and the figure of his father appear in the black rectangle of the doorway. He seemed terribly small against the elegant façade of the building. He took a step forward, his hands held up, palms facing forward. His straight hair hung down over his forehead, his tie askew, his blue suit rumpled.

“That’s far enough,” came the voice. “Stop.”

Melvin Crew stopped, blinking in the bright sunlight.

The shots rang out, so close together they sounded like firecrackers, and his father was abruptly punched back into the darkness of the doorway.

“Dad!” screamed Gideon, leaping over the barrier and running across the hot asphalt of the parking lot. “Dad!”

Shouts erupted behind him, cries of “Who’s that kid?” and “Hold fire!”

He leapt the curb and cut across the lawn toward the entrance. Figures raced forward to intercept him.

“Jesus Christ, stop him!”

He slipped on the grass, fell to his hands and knees, rose again. He could see only his father’s two feet, sticking out of the dark doorway into the sunlight, shoes pointed skyward, scuffed soles turned up for all to see, one with a hole in it. It was a dream, a dream—and then the last thing he saw before he was tackled to the ground was the feet move, jerking twice.

“Dad!” he screamed into the grass, trying to claw back to his feet as the weight of the world piled up on his shoulders; but he’d seen those feet move, his father was alive, he would wake up and all would be well.

2

October 1996

Gideon Crew had flown in from California on the red-eye, the plane sitting on the LAX tarmac for two hours before finally taking off for Dulles. He’d hopped a bus into the city, then taken the Metro as far as he could before switching to a taxi: the last thing his finances needed right now was the unexpected plane fare. He’d been burning through cash at an alarming rate, not budgeting at all—and that last job he’d done had been higher-profile than usual, the merchandise difficult to fence.

When the call came he’d hoped at first it was one more false alarm, another attack of hysteria or drunken plea for attention. But when he arrived at the hospital, the doctor had been coolly frank. “Her liver is failing and she’s not eligible for a transplant because of her history. This may be your last visit.”

She lay in intensive care, her bleached-blond hair spread over the pillow, showing an inch of black roots, her skin raddled. A sad, inept attempt had been made to apply eye shadow; it was like painting the shutters on a haunted house. He could hear her raspy breathing through the nasal cannula. The room was hushed, the lights low, the discreet beeping of electronics a watchful presence. He felt a sudden tidal wave of guilt and pity. He’d been absorbed in his own life instead of tending to her. But every time he’d tried in the past, she had retreated into the bottle and they’d ended up fighting. It wasn’t fair, her life ending like this. It just wasn’t fair.

Taking her hand, he tried and failed to think of anything to say. Finally he managed a lame “How are you, Mom?”—hating himself for the inanity of the question even before he’d finished asking it.

She just looked at him in response. The whites of her eyes were the color of overripe bananas. Her bony hand grasped his in a weak, trembling embrace. Finally she stirred weakly. “Well, this is it.”

“Mom, please don’t talk like that.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “You’ve talked to the doctor: you know how things stand. I have cirrhosis, along with all the lovely side effects—not to mention congestive heart failure and emphysema from years of smoking. I’m a wreck and it’s my own damn fault.”

Gideon could think of no response. It was all true, of course, and his mother was nothing if not direct. She always had been. He found it puzzling that such a strong woman was so weak when it came to chemical vices. No, it wasn’t so puzzling: she had an addictive personality, and he recognized the same in himself.

“The truth shall make you free,” she said, “but first it will make you miserable.”

It was her favorite aphorism, and it always preceded her saying something difficult.

“The time has come for me to tell you a truth—” She gasped in some air. “—that will make you miserable.”

He waited while she took a few more raspy breaths.

“It’s about your father.” Her yellow eyes swiveled toward the door. “Shut it.”

His apprehension mounting, Gideon gently closed the door and returned to her bedside.

She clasped his hand again. “Golubzi,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“Golubzi. A Russian salt-cabbage roll.”

She paused for more air. “That was the Soviet code name for the operation. The Roll. In one night, twenty-six deep-cover operatives were rolled up. Disappeared.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Thresher.” She closed her eyes, breathing rapidly. It was as if, having decided to take the plunge, she couldn’t wait to get out the words. “That’s the other word. The project your father was working on at INSCOM. A new encryption standard…highly classified.”

“Are you sure you should be talking about this?” Gideon asked.

“Your father shouldn’t have told me. But he did.” Her eyes remained closed and her body looked collapsed, as if it were sinking into the bed. “Thresher needed to be vetted. Tested. That’s when they hired your father. We moved to DC.”

Gideon nodded. For a seventh grader, moving from Claremont, California, to DC had not exactly been fun.

“In 1987, INSCOM sent Thresher to the National Security Agency for final review. It was approved. And implemented.”

“I never heard any of this.”

“You’re hearing it now.” She swallowed painfully. “It took the Russians just months to crack it. On July 5, 1988—the day after Independence Day—the Soviets rolled up all those US spies.”

She paused, releasing a long sigh. The machines continued beeping quietly, mingling with the hiss of the oxygen and the muffled sounds of the hospital beyond.

Gideon continued to hold her hand, at a loss for words.

“They blamed your father for the disaster—”

“Mom.” Gideon pressed her hand. “This is all in the past.”

She shook her head. “They ruined his life. That’s why he did what he did, took that hostage.”

“What does it matter now? Long ago I accepted that Dad made a mistake.”

The eyes opened suddenly. “No mistake. He was the scapegoat.”

She pronounced the word harshly, as if she were clearing her throat of something unpleasant.

“What do you mean?”

“Before Operation Golubzi, your father wrote a memo. He said Thresher was theoretically flawed. That there was a potential back door. They ignored him. But he was right. And twenty-six people died.”

She inhaled noisily, her hands bunching up the bedcovers with the effort. “Thresher was classified, they could say whatever they liked. No one to contradict. Your father was an outsider, a professor, a civilian. And he had a history of treatment for depression that could be conveniently resurrected.”

Listening, Gideon froze. “You’re saying…it wasn’t his fault?”

“Just the opposite. They destroyed the evidence and blamed him for the Golubzi disaster. That’s why he took that hostage. And that’s why he was shot with his hands up—to silence him. Cold-blooded murder.”

Gideon felt a strange sense of weightlessness. As horrifying as the story was, he felt a burden being lifted. His father, whose name had been publicly vilified since he was twelve, wasn’t the depressed, unstable, bungling mathematician after all. All the taunting and hazing he’d endured, the whispering and sniggering behind his back—it meant nothing. At the same time, the enormity of the crime perpetrated against his father began to sink in. He remembered that day vividly, remembered the promises that were made. He remembered how his father had been lured out into the sunlight only to be shot down.

“But who…?” he began.

“Lieutenant General Chamblee Tucker. An INSCOM deputy chief. Group leader of the Thresher project. He made a scapegoat of your father to protect himself. He gave the order to fire. Remember that name: Chamblee Tucker.”

His mother ceased speaking and lay in the bed, covered with sweat, gasping as if she had just run a marathon.

“Thank you for telling me this,” he said evenly.

“Not finished.” More labored breathing. He could see her heart monitor on the wall, registering in the one forties.

“Don’t talk anymore,” he said. “You need to rest.”

“No,” she said with sudden forcefulness. “I’ll have time to rest…later.”

Gideon waited.

“You know what happened next. You lived through it, too. The constant moving, the poverty. The…men. I just couldn’t pull it together. My real life ended that day. Ever afterward I felt dead inside. I was a terrible mother. And you…you were so hurt.”

“Don’t you worry, I survived.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.” But deep within, Gideon felt a twinge.

Her breathing began to slow, and Gideon felt her grasp relax. Seeing she was going to sleep, he eased her hand from his and placed it on the bedcovers. But when he bent down to kiss her, the hand shot up again, grasping his collar with claw-like fingers. Her eyes pinned his and she said, with manic intensity: “Even the score.”

“What?”

“Do to Tucker what he did to your father. Destroy him. And in the end, make sure he knows why—and by whom.”

“Good God, what are you asking?” Gideon whispered, looking around in sudden panic. “Mom, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

Her voice fell to a whisper. “Take your time. Finish college. Go to graduate school. Study. Watch. Wait. You’ll figure out a way.”

Her hand slowly relaxed and she closed her eyes again, the air seeming to run out of her forever, like a final sigh. And in a way it was; she lapsed into a coma and died two days later.

Those were her last words, words that would resonate endlessly in his mind. You’ll figure out a way.

3

Present day

Gideon Crew emerged from the ponderosa pines into the broad field in front of the cabin. In one hand he carried an aluminum tube containing his fly rod; a canvas bag was slung over his shoulder, two trout inside, nestled in wet grass. It was a beautiful day in early May, the sun mild on the back of his neck. His long legs swept through the meadow, scattering bees and butterflies.

The cabin stood at the far end, hand-adzed logs chinked with adobe, with a rusted tin roof, two windows, and a door. A rack of solar panels poked discreetly above the roofline, next to a broadband satellite dish.

Beyond, the mountainside fell away into the vast Piedra Lumbre basin, the distant peaks of southern Colorado fringing the horizon like so many blue teeth. Gideon worked on “the Hill”—up at Los Alamos National Lab—and spent his weeknights in a cheesy government apartment in a building at the corner of Trinity and Oppenheimer. But he spent his weekends—and his real life—in this cabin in the Jemez Mountains.

He pushed open the cabin door and entered the kitchen alcove. Shrugging off the canvas bag, he took out the cleaned cutthroat trout, rinsed them, and patted them dry. He reached over to the iPod sitting in its dock and, after a moment’s reflection, dialed in Thelonius Monk. The percussive notes of “Green Chimneys” floated from the speakers.

Blending lemon juice and salt, he beat in some olive oil and freshly cracked pepper, then basted the trout with the marinade. Mentally, he checked off the rest of the ingredients of truite à la provençale: onions, tomatoes, garlic, vermouth, flour, oregano, and thyme. Gideon usually ate only one real meal a day, of the highest quality, prepared by himself. It was an almost Zen-like exercise, both in the preparation and the slow consumption. When further sustenance was necessary, it was Twinkies, Doritos, and coffee on the run.

After washing his hands, he walked into the living area and placed the aluminum fly-rod case into an old umbrella stand in one corner. He flopped down on the ancient leather sofa and kicked his feet up, relaxing. A fire, lit for cheeriness rather than warmth, crackled in the large stone fireplace, and the afternoon sun threw yellow light across a pair of elk antlers hanging above it. A bearskin rug covered the floor, and old backgammon and checkers boards hung on the walls. Books lay strewn about on side tables and stacked on the floor, and a wall of shelves at the far end of the room was crammed with volumes stuck in every which way until no space remained.

He glanced toward another alcove, covered by an improvised curtain made from an old Hudson’s Bay point blanket. For a long moment, he didn’t move. He hadn’t checked the system since last week, and he felt disinclined to do it now. He was tired and looking forward to dinner. But it had been a self-imposed duty for so long that it was now a habit, and so at last he roused himself, raked back his long straight black hair with one hand, and slouched over to the blanket, from behind which came a faint humming sound.

He drew back the curtain with some reluctance, the dark space releasing a faint smell of electronics and warm plastic. A wooden desk and a rack of computer equipment greeted his eye, LEDs blinking in the dimness. There were four computers in the rack, of varying makes and sizes, all off-brand or generic, none less than five years old: an Apache server and three Linux clients. For what Gideon was doing, the computers didn’t need to be fast; they just had to be thorough—and reliable. The only brand-new and relatively expensive piece of equipment in the alcove was a high-performance broadband satellite router.

Above the rack was a small, exquisite pencil sketch by Winslow Homer of rocks on the Maine coast. It was the one remaining artifact from his previous profession: the one he simply hadn’t had the heart to sell.

Pulling back a ratty office chair on an octopus of wheels, he seated himself at the small wooden desk, kicked his feet up, dragged a keyboard into his lap, and began typing. A screen popped up with a summary of the search results, informing him he had not been in attendance for six days.

He drilled through to the results window. Immediately he saw that there had been a hit.

He stared at the screen. Over the years, he’d refined and improved his search engine, and it had been almost a year since the last false positive.

Dropping his feet to the floor, heart suddenly hammering in his chest, he hunched over the desk, banging furiously at the keys. The hit was in a table of contents released to the National Security Archives at George Washington University. The actual archival material remained classified, but the table of contents had been released as part of a large, ongoing declassification of Cold War documents under Executive Order 12958.

The hit was his father’s name: L. Melvin Crew. And the title of the archived, still-classified document was A Critique of the Thresher Discrete Logarithm Encryption Standard EVP-4: A Theoretical Back-Door Cryptanalysis Attack Strategy Using a Group of φ-Torsion Points of an Elliptic Curve in Characteristic φ.

“Mother of God,” Gideon murmured as he stared at the screen. No false positive this time.

For years, he’d been hoping for something. But this looked like more than something. It might be the brass ring.

It seemed incredible, unbelievable: could this be the very memo his father had written criticizing Thresher, the memo that General Tucker had supposedly destroyed?

There was only one way to find out.

4

Midnight. Gideon Crew slouched down the street, hands in his pockets, baseball cap turned backward, filthy shirt untucked beneath a greasy trench coat, baggy pants hanging halfway down his ass, thinking how lucky he was that today was trash day in suburban Brookland, Washington, DC.

He turned the corner of Kearny Street and passed the house: a shabby bungalow with an overgrown lawn surrounded by a white picket fence only partially painted. And, of course, a lovely overflowing trash can sat at the end of the walkway, a fearful stench of rotting shrimp hovering in the muggy air. He paused at the can, looking about furtively. Then he dove in with one hand, digging deep, groping among the garbage as he went. His hand encountered something that felt like french fries and he pulled up a handful, confirmed they were fries, tossed them back.

He saw a flash of movement. A scrawny, one-eyed cat came slinking out from a hedge.

“Hungry, partner?”

The cat made a low meow and crept over, tail twitching warily. Gideon offered it a fry. It sniffed at it suspiciously, ate it, then meowed again, louder.

Gideon tossed the cat a small handful. “That’s all, kiddo. Any idea how bad trans-fatty acids are for you?”

The cat settled down to nosh.

Gideon dove in again, stirring the garbage with his arm, this time turning up a wad of discarded papers. Quickly sorting through them, he saw they were some little child’s math homework—straight A’s, he noted with approval. Why were they thrown away? Should be framed.

He pushed them back in, dug out a chicken drumstick, and set it aside for the cat. He reached in again, both hands this time, wriggling downward, encountering something slimy, fumbling deeper, his fingers working through various semi-solid things before encountering more papers. Grasping them and working them to the surface, he saw they were just what he was looking for: discarded bills. And among them was the top half of a phone bill.

Jackpot.

“Hey!” He heard a shout and looked up. There was the homeowner himself, Lamoine Hopkins, a small, thin African American man, excitedly pointing his arm. “Hey! Get the fuck outta here!”

In no hurry, glad of the unexpected opportunity to interact with one of his targets, Gideon shoved the papers into his pocket. “Can’t a man feed himself?” He held up the drumstick.

“Go feed yourself somewhere else!” the man shrilled. “This is a decent neighborhood! That’s my trash!”

“Come on, man, don’t be like that.”

The man took out his cell phone. “You see this? I’m calling the cops!”

“Hey, no harm done, man.”

“Hello?” said the man, speaking theatrically into the phone, “there’s an intruder on my property, rifling my trash! Thirty-five seventeen Kearny Street Northeast!”

“Sorry,” Gideon mumbled, shambling off with the drumstick in one hand.

“I need a squad car, right now!” shrilled the man. “He’s trying to get away!”

Gideon tossed the drumstick in the direction of the cat, shuffled off around the corner, and then picked up his pace. He quickly wiped his hands and arms as thoroughly as he could on his cap, discarded it, turned his Salvation Army coat inside out—revealing an immaculate blue trench coat—and put it on, tucked in his shirt, then slicked back his hair with a comb. As he reached his rental car a few blocks off, a police cruiser passed by, giving him only the briefest of glances. He slipped in and started the engine, rejoicing at his good fortune. Not only did he get what he’d come for, but he’d met Mr. Lamoine Hopkins in person—and had such a lovely chat with him.

That would come in handy.

From his motel room, Gideon began cold-calling the numbers on Hopkins’s phone bill the next morning. He worked his way through a succession of Hopkins’s friends until on the fifth call he struck pay dirt.

“Heart of Virginia Mall, tech support,” came the voice. “Kenny Roman speaking.”

Tech support. Quickly, Gideon turned on a digital recorder plugged into a line-splitter on the phone line. “Mr. Roman?”

“Yes?”

“My name is Eric, and I’m calling on behalf of the Sutherland Finance Company.”

“Yeah? What do you want?”

“It’s about the loan on your 2007 Dodge Dakota.”

“What Dakota?”

“The loan is three months overdue, sir, and I’m afraid that Sutherland Finance—”

“What are you talking about? I don’t have any Dakota.”

“Mr. Roman, I understand these are difficult financial times, but if we don’t receive the amount currently overdue—”

“Look, buddy, dig some of the wax outta your ears, will you? You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t even own a pickup. Suck—My—Dick.” There was a click as the line went dead.

Gideon hung up. He snapped off the digital recorder. Then he listened three times to the exchange he’d just recorded. What are you talking about? I don’t have any Dakota, Gideon mimicked aloud. Look, buddy, dig some of the wax outta your ears, will you? You’ve got the wrong person. I don’t even own a pickup. He repeated the phrases many times, in different combinations, until he felt he had the inflections, tone, rhythms down just about right.

He picked up the phone and dialed again: this time, the IT department at Fort Belvoir.

“IT,” came the response. It was Lamoine Hopkins’s voice.

“Lamoine?” Gideon said, whispering. “It’s Kenny.”

“Kenny, what the hell?” Hopkins sounded instantly suspicious. “What’s with the whispering?”

“Got a fucking cold. And…what I got to say is sensitive.”

“Sensitive? What do you mean?”

“Lamoine, you got a problem.”

“Me? I got a problem? What do you mean?”

Gideon consulted a sheet of scribbled notes. “I got a call from a guy named Roger Winters.”

“Winters? Winters called you?”

“Yeah. Said there was a problem. He asked me how many times you’d called me from work, that kind of shit.”

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah.

“He wanted to know,” Gideon-as-Kenny asked, “if you’d called me on your office computer, using VoIP or Skype.”

“Christ, that would be a violation of security! I’ve never done that!”

“Man said you had.”

Gideon could hear Lamoine breathing heavily. “But it isn’t true!”

“That’s what I told him. Listen, Lamoine, there’s a security audit going on over there, I’ll bet you anything, and somehow they’re on your case.”

“What am I going to do?” Hopkins fairly wailed. “I haven’t done anything wrong! I mean, I couldn’t make a VoIP call from here even if I wanted to!”

“Why not?”

“The firewall.”

“There are ways to get around a firewall.”

“Are you kidding me? We’re a classified facility!”

“There’s always a way.”

“For Chrissakes, Kenny, I know there isn’t a way. I’m IT, remember? Just like you. There’s only one outgoing port in the entire network, and all that it allows past is passphrase-encrypted packets from specific nodes, all of which are secure. And even then the packets can only go to certain external IPs. All the classified documents in this archive are digitized, they’re super-paranoid about electronic security. There’s no way in hell I could call out on Skype! I can’t even send out e-mail!”

Gideon coughed, sniffed, blew his nose. “Don’t you know the port number?”

“Sure, but I don’t have access to the weekly passphrases.”

“Does your boss, Winters, have access?”

“No. Only, like, the top three in the organization get the passphrase—director, deputy director, and security director. I mean, with that passphrase you could pretty much e-mail out any classified document in here.”

“Don’t you guys in IT generate the passphrases?”

“You kidding? It comes down from the spooks in a secure envelope. I mean, they walk the sucker over here. It never enters any electronic system—it’s written down by hand on a piece of frigging paper.”

“Problem is that port number,” said Gideon. “Is that written down?”

“It’s kept in a safe. But a lot of people know it.”

Gideon grunted. “Sounds to me like you’re being framed. Like maybe one of the top guys screwed up and is looking for someone else to take the fall. ‘Let’s pin it on Lamoine!’”

“No way.”

“Happens all the time. It’s always the little guys who get shafted. You need to protect yourself, man.”

“How?”

Gideon let the silence build. “I have an idea…it might be a really good one. What was that port number again?”

“Six one five one. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I’ll check some things, call you back at home tonight. In the meantime, don’t say anything about this to anybody, just sit tight, do your job, keep your head down. Don’t call me back—they’re no doubt logging your calls. We’ll talk when you get home.”

“I can’t believe this. Listen, thanks, Kenny. Really.”

Gideon coughed again. “Hey, what are friends for?”

5

Hanging up the phone, Gideon Crew began flinging off his clothes. He slid open the closet door and laid a garment bag on the bed. From it he removed a fragrant, custom-cut Turnbull & Asser shirt, shifted his lanky frame into it, and buttoned it up. Next came a blue Thomas Mahon bespoke suit. He pulled on the pants, belted them, whipped on a Spitalfield flower tie (where did the English get those names?), tied it with a crisp tug, shrugged on the jacket. He massaged some hair gel between his palms and used it to slick back his floppy hair. As a final touch, he combed a smidgen of gray into his sideburns, which added an instant five years to his age.

He turned to look at himself in the mirror. Thirty-two hundred dollars for the new persona—shirt, suit, shoes, belt, tie, haircut—twenty-nine hundred for travel, motel, car, and driver. All on four brand-new credit cards obtained and maxed out for just this purpose, with virtually no hope of being paid off.

Welcome to America.

The car was already waiting for him in front of the motel, a black Lincoln Navigator; he slipped into the back and handed the driver the address. Gideon settled himself into the soft kid leather as the car pulled away, arranging his face, composing himself, and trying not to think of the three-hundred-dollar-an-hour price tag. Or, for that matter, the much higher price tag attached to the scam he was about to perpetrate, if he were to get caught…

Traffic was light and thirty minutes later the car pulled into the entrance to Fort Belvoir, which housed INSCOM’s Directorate of Information Management: a low, 1960s-modern building of exceptional hideousness set amid locust trees and surrounded by a huge parking lot.

Somewhere inside the building sat Lamoine Hopkins, no doubt sweating bullets. And somewhere else inside the building was the classified memo written by Gideon’s own father.

“Pull up to the front and wait for me,” said Gideon. He realized his voice was squeaky with nervousness, and he swallowed, trying to relax his neck muscles.

“I’m sorry, sir, but it says No Standing.”

He cleared his throat, producing a smooth, low, confident voice. “If anyone asks, say Congressman Wilcyzek is meeting with General Moorehead. But if they insist, don’t make a scene, just go ahead and move. I shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Gideon exited the vehicle and headed down the walkway; he pushed through the doors and headed for the reception/information desks. The broad lobby was full of military personnel and self-important civilians briskly coming and going. God, he hated Washington.

With a cold smile, Gideon went up to the woman at the desk. She had carefully coiffed blue hair, neat as a pin, clearly a stickler for procedure—someone who took her work seriously. Couldn’t ask for better. Those who followed the rules were the most predictable.

He smiled and—speaking into the air just a few inches above her head—said, “Congressman Wilcyzek here to see Deputy Commander General Thomas Moorehead. I’m…” He glanced at his watch. “…three minutes early.”

She straightened up like a shot. “Of course, Congressman. Just a moment.” She lifted a phone, pressed a button, spoke for a moment. She glanced at Gideon. “Excuse me, Congressman, can you spell your name, please?”

With a sigh of irritation he spelled it out, making it abundantly clear that she should have known the spelling already—indeed, he was careful to cultivate an air of someone who expected to be recognized, who had only contempt for the ignorance of those who did not.

She pursed her lips, got back on the phone. A short conversation followed, and then she hung up. “Congressman, I’m terribly sorry, but the general is out for the day and his secretary has no record of the appointment. Are you sure…?” She faltered when Gideon fixed her with a severe look.

“Am I sure?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Her lips were now fully pursed, her blue hair beginning to quiver with suppressed offense.

He looked at his watch, looked up at her. “Mrs.…?”

“Wilson,” she said.

He slipped a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to her. “You can check for yourself.”

It was an e-mail he had concocted, allegedly from the general’s secretary, confirming the appointment with the general he’d already known would be out. She read it and returned it to him. “I’m very sorry, he doesn’t seem to be in. Shall I call his secretary again?”

Gideon continued to glare at her, fixing her with a subzero stare. “I should like to speak to his secretary myself.”

She faltered, removed the phone from its cradle, and handed it to him, but not before dialing the number.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Wilson, but this is a classified matter. Do you mind?”

Her face, which had gradually darkened, now flushed rose. She stood up silently and took a step away from her desk. He put the receiver to his ear. The phone was ringing, but turning to block her view, he depressed the button and, almost imperceptibly, dialed another extension—this time, the secretary to General Shorthouse, the director himself.

Only, like, the top three in the organization get the passphrase—director, deputy director, and security director…

“Director’s office,” came the secretary’s voice.

Speaking quietly and rapidly, and summoning the voice of the man who’d confronted him at the trash cans the night before, he said: “This is Lamoine Hopkins in IT returning the general’s call. It’s urgent—a security breach.”

“Just a moment.”

He waited. After a minute, General Shorthouse came on. “Yes? What’s the problem? I didn’t call you.”

“I’m sorry, General,” said Gideon, speaking like Hopkins but now in a low, unctuous tone, “about the lousy day you must be having.”

“What are you talking about, Hopkins?”

“Your system being down, sir, and the backup not kicking in.”

“It’s not down.”

“General? We’re showing your whole grid as down. It’s a security violation, sir—and you know what that means.”

“That’s preposterous. My computer’s on right now and working perfectly. And why are you calling me from reception?”

“General, that’s part of the problem. The telephony matrix is tied into the computer network and it’s giving false readings. Log off and log back on, please, while I trace.” Gideon glanced over at the receptionist, who was still standing to one side, making a conscientious effort not to overhear.

He heard the tapping of keys. “Done.”

“Funny, I’m not reading any packet activity from your network address. Try signing off again.”

More tapping of keys.

“Nothing, General. Looks like your ID might have been compromised. This is bad—it’s going to require a report, an investigation. And it would be your system. I’m so sorry, sir.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Hopkins. I’m sure we can fix it.”

“Well…we can give it a shot. But I’ll have to try resetting, and then accessing your account from down here. I’m going to need your ID and passphrase, please.”

A pause. “I’m not sure I can give you that.”

“You may not realize this, but in the case of network resets the passphrase is automatically changed, so you’re allowed to release the passphrase internally to IT. If you feel uncomfortable with that, sir, I understand, but then I’ll have to call the NSA for a passphrase override, I’m really sorry—”

“All right, Hopkins. I wasn’t aware of that regulation.” He gave Gideon the passphrase and ID. Gideon jotted it down.

After a moment, with huge relief in his voice, Gideon said: “Whew. That reset did it, sir. Apparently, it was just a hung screen. No security breach. You’re good to go.”

“Excellent.”

Gideon depressed the key and turned to the receptionist. “Sorry to bother you,” he said, handing her the receiver. “Everything’s straightened out.” He walked briskly out of the building to the waiting car.

Thirty minutes later he was back in his motel room, stretched out on the bed, laptop connected to an unsecured computer in the bowels of the General Services Administration that he’d remotely hijacked. He had chosen to target the GSA—the vast government bureaucracy that handles supplies, equipment, procedures, and the like—because he knew it would be a relatively easy mark, and yet one still within the government security perimeter.

Hopkins had explained—unwittingly, of course—that the INSCOM archive could only send documents to previously authorized IP addresses, and unfortunately most of those were also inside classified perimeters…except for one: the National Security Archives at George Washington University. This private archive, the largest in the world outside the Library of Congress, collected vast amounts of government documents, including virtually everything being routinely declassified as part of the Mandatory Declassification Review: the government’s program for declassifying documents under several laws requiring them to do so. A veritable Amazon of information flowed into this archive on a daily basis.

Via the GSA computer, Gideon sent an automated request to the INSCOM secure archive at George Washington via port 6151, directing that a PDF file of a certain classified document be transmitted out through the same port, authorized via General Shorthouse’s passphrase, to be added to a routine dump of Cold War declassified documents headed for the National Security Archives daily batch files. The file was duly transmitted; it passed through the firewall at the sole authorized port, where the passphrase was examined and approved; and the document was subsequently routed to George Washington University and stored with millions of others in one of the archive databases.

Thus, Gideon had successfully arranged for the erroneous declassification of a classified document and hid it within a huge stream of data leaving the secure government perimeter. Now all that remained was to retrieve the document.

The next morning, at around eleven, a certain rumpled yet undeniably charming visiting professor by the name of Irwin Beauchamp, dressed in tweeds, mismatched corduroys, beaten-up wing tips, and a knitted tie (thirty-two dollars; Salvation Army) entered the Gelman Library at George Washington University and requested a slew of documents. His identity was not yet in the system and he had lost his temporary library card, but a kindly secretary took pity on the scatterbrained fellow and allowed him access to the system. Half an hour later, Beauchamp departed the building with a slender manila folder under his arm.

Back in the motel, Gideon Crew spread out the papers from the folder with a trembling hand. The moment of truth had arrived—the truth that would make him either free, or merely more miserable.

6

A Critique of the Thresher Discrete Logarithm Encryption Standard EVP-4: A Theoretical Back-Door Cryptanalysis Attack Strategy Using a Group of φ-Torsion Points of an Elliptic Curve in Characteristic φ.

Gideon Crew had studied plenty of advanced mathematics in college and, later, at MIT, but the math in this paper was still way over his head. Nevertheless, he understood enough to realize what he had in his hands was the smoking gun. This was the memo his father had written to critique Thresher, the memo his mother said had been destroyed. Yet it hadn’t been. Most likely, the bastard responsible—believing it too difficult or risky to destroy the document outright—had stuck it into an archive he believed would never be declassified. After all, what American general in the era of the Berlin Wall would have believed the Cold War could ever end?

He continued reading, heart racing, until, finally, he came to the final paragraphs. They were written in the dry language of science-speak, but what they said was pure dynamite.

In conclusion, it is the author’s opinion that the proposed Thresher Encryption Standard EVP-4, based on the theory of discrete logarithms, is flawed. The author has demonstrated that there exists a potential class of algorithms, based on the theory of elliptic functions defined over the complex numbers, which can solve certain discrete logarithm functions in real-time computing parameters. While the author has been as yet unable to identify specific algorithms, he has demonstrated herein that it is possible to do so.

The proposed Thresher standard is therefore vulnerable. If this standard is adopted, the author believes that, given the high quality of Soviet mathematical research, codes developed from this standard could be broken within a relatively short period of time.

The author strongly recommends that Thresher Encryption Standard EVP-4 not be adopted in its current form.

That was it. Proof that his father had been framed. And then murdered. Gideon Crew already knew all about the man who had done it: Lieutenant General (ret.) Chamblee S. Tucker, currently CEO of Tucker and Associates, one of the high-profile defense industry lobbying firms on K Street. They represented many of the country’s largest defense contractors, and Tucker had leveraged himself to the hilt in order to finance the firm. He was raking in huge bucks, but they managed to go right back out the door thanks to his extravagant lifestyle.

By itself, this document meant little. Gideon knew that anything could be counterfeited—or be claimed to have been counterfeited. The document wasn’t an endpoint; it was a starting point for the little surprise he had planned for Chamblee S. Tucker.

Using the remote computer he had previously hijacked at the General Services Administration, Gideon stripped the document of its classification watermarks and sent it to a dozen large computer databases worldwide. Having thus secured the document from destruction, he sent an e-mail directly from his own computer to chamblee.tucker@tuckerandassociates.com with the document as an attachment. The covering e-mail read:

General Tucker:

I know what you did. I know why you did it. I know how you did it.

On Monday, I’m sending the attached file to various correspondents at the Post, Times, AP, and network news channels—with an explanation.

Have a nice weekend.

Gideon Crew

7

Chamblee S. Tucker sat behind an enormous desk in the oak-paneled study of his house in McLean, Virginia, thoughtfully hefting a four-pound Murano glass paperweight in one hand. At seventy years old, he was fit for his age and proud of it.

He shifted the paperweight to the other hand, pressed it a few times.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in.” He set the paperweight down with exquisite care.

Charles Dajkovic entered the study. He was in civilian clothes, but his bearing and physique shouted military: whitewall haircut, massive neck, ramrod posture, steely blue eyes. A grizzled, close-clipped mustache was his only concession to civilian life.

“Good morning, General,” he said.

“Good morning, Charlie. Sit down. Have a cup of coffee.”

“Thank you.” The man eased his frame into the proffered chair. Tucker indicated a silver salver on a nearby side table with coffeepot, sugar, cream, and cups. Dajkovic helped himself.

“Let’s see now…” The general paused. “You’ve been with Tucker and Associates for, what, ten years?”

“That’s about right, sir.”

“But you and I, we go way back.”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have a history. Operation Urgent Fury. That’s why I hired you: because the trust built on the battlefield is the finest trust that exists in this crazy world. Men who haven’t fought together in battle don’t even know the full meaning of the words trust and loyalty.”

“That’s very true, sir.”

“And that is why I asked you to come to my home. Because I can trust you.” The general paused. “Let me tell you a story. It has a moral but you’ll have to figure it out on your own. I can’t be too specific—you’ll see why.”

A nod.

“Ever hear of John Walker Lindh?”

“The ‘American Taliban’?”

“Right. And Adam Gadahn?”

“Isn’t he the guy who joined al-Qaeda and makes videos for Bin Laden?”

“Right you are. I’ve come into possession of some highly classified information regarding a third American convert—only this one is far more dangerous.” Tucker paused again. “This fellow’s father worked for INSCOM when I was there. Turned out the man was a traitor, passing information to the Soviets. You may remember the aftermath: he took a hostage over at the old HQ. Our snipers took him down. His kid witnessed it.”

“I recall that incident.”

“What you don’t know, because it’s also classified, is that he was responsible for exposing twenty-six operatives. They were swept up in one night and tortured to death in Soviet gulags.”

Dajkovic said nothing. He set down the now empty coffee cup.

“That’s just background. You can imagine what it was like to grow up in that kind of environment…Anyway, just like Lindh and Gadahn, this fellow converted. Only he didn’t do anything stupid like go off to a training camp in Afghanistan. He went on to MIT and now he works at Los Alamos. Name’s Gideon Crew. C-R-E-W.”

“How’d he get security clearance?”

“Powerful friends in high places. He’s made no mistakes. He’s good, he’s totally convincing, he’s sincere. And he’s al-Qaeda’s pipeline to getting the Bomb.”

Dajkovic shifted in his seat. “Why don’t they arrest him? Or at least cancel his security clearance?”

Tucker leaned forward. “Charlie, are you really that naive?”

“I hope not, sir.”

“What do you think’s going on in this country? Just like we were infiltrated by the Reds during the Cold War, now we’re being infiltrated by jihadists. American jihadists.”

“I understand.”

“Now, with the kind of high-level protection this fellow has, he’s untouchable. There’s nothing concrete, of course. This information fell into my lap by accident, and I’m not one to shy away from defending my country. Imagine what al-Qaeda would do with a nuke.”

“It’s unthinkable.”

“Charlie, I know you. You were the top Special Forces guy in my command. You’ve got skills no one else has. The question is: how much do you love your country?”

The man seemed to swell in his chair. “You don’t ever need to ask me that question, sir.”

“I know that. That’s why you’re the only one I’d dare share this information with. All I can say is, sometimes a man has to take his patriotic duty into his own hands.”

Dajkovic remained silent. A faint flush had suffused his weathered face.

“Last time I checked, the fellow was in DC. Staying at the Luna Motel out in Dodge Park. We believe he’s going to make contact with a fellow jihadist. He may be getting ready to pass documents.”

Dajkovic said nothing.

“I don’t know how long he’s going to be there, or where he’s going next. He’s got a computer with him, of course, which is as dangerous as he is. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I understand completely. And I thank you for giving me this opportunity.”

“Charlie, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.” He grasped Dajkovic’s hand and then, in a spontaneous display of emotion, pulled him in and gave him a crushing hug.

As the fellow left, Tucker thought he noted tears in his eyes.

8

Skyline Drive swept around the curve of Stormtower Ridge, and the Manahoac Lodge and Resort came into view, a collection of condominiums and A-frames surrounding a hotel and golf course at the base of Stormtower Mountain. The Blue Ridge Mountains, layer after layer, stretched off behind into the hazy distance.

Dajkovic eased his foot off the pedal as the car approached the entrance to the resort, and he came to a stop at the gate.

“Just checking in,” he said, and was waved through.

Crew had left this forwarding address at the Luna Motel, written it down “in case someone needed to find him,” according to the clerk. He was staying at this resort now—isolated, long drive to get to, no doubt with security cameras up the wazoo. So either, as Tucker had said, Crew was getting ready to meet a fellow operative…or this was a trap. The latter seemed more likely. But a trap for whom? To what purpose?

Dajkovic swung into the entry drive and parked in front, giving the valet a five-dollar bill. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“Oh yes,” said the lady at the front desk in response to his query. “Gideon Crew checked in this morning.” She clicked away at a keyboard. “Left word for you he was climbing Stormtower Mountain—”

“For me?”

“Well,” she said, “the message he left says a man would be coming to meet with him, and we were to tell him where he’d gone.”

“I see.”

“It says here he’s climbing Stormtower by the Sawmill Trail, expects to be back by six.”

“How long is the climb?”

“About two hours each way.” She looked at him with a smile, her eyes running up and down his physique. “For you, probably less.”

Dajkovic checked the time. Two o’clock. “He must have just left.”

“Yes. The message was left at the front desk…just twenty minutes ago.”

“Do you have a map of the mountain?”

“Of course.”

She produced a map—an excellent topographic one, with the trails clearly marked. Dajkovic took it back to his car and climbed in. The Sawmill trailhead was down the road, and the map showed it to be a winding path going up the ridge of the mountain, apparently following an old fire road.

It was entirely possible Crew had left the directions so his contact could find him. Yet it seemed unlikely. No one involved in espionage would be so ham-handed as to leave such a trail. Yes, it seemed more likely that this was a trap. Not a trap for him, specifically, but for anyone who might be pursuing Crew. And if so, then Crew would be on the mountain—waiting along the Sawmill Trail to ambush anyone coming up behind him.

He examined the map. A much quicker, more direct way to the summit led straight up the main ski lift cut, on the back side of the mountain.

Driving through the resort and past the golf course, Dajkovic came to the parking lot for the ski area. He got out and opened the trunk, removing a gun case. Back inside the car, he unlocked the case and removed an M1911 Colt and a shoulder holster, donned the holster, tucked the loaded weapon into it, and pulled on a windbreaker. A fixed-blade knife went into his belt and a smaller one into his boot, and a Beretta .22 was slipped in his trouser pocket. Into a small backpack he threw some extra ammunition, binoculars, and two bottles of water.

Once again he examined the map. If Crew was planning an ambush, there were a couple of obvious places for it where the Sawmill Trail passed through an area of exposed knobs.

As he stared at the map, he became convinced this was where the ambush would take place.

9

Dajkovic started up the ski lift cut, moving fast. It was half a mile to the top, and unrelievedly steep, but he was in peak physical condition and could make it in ten minutes; then, cresting the mountain, he would head down the Sawmill Trail, bushwhack to the summit of a secondary peak he’d identified on the map, an ideal place from which to surveil the area of exposed knobs, locate the ambusher—and then ambush him.

Five minutes later, halfway up the slope, a maintenance hut for the ski lift, shuttered for the summer, came into view. Dajkovic churned up the slope, detouring around it. As he moved past the hut he heard a tremendous boom! and suddenly felt a violent blow to his upper back—which, with his upward momentum, pitched him forward onto the slope and knocked the wind from him.

As he struggled for his .45, fighting the pain in his back and gasping for breath, he felt a boot press down on his neck and the warm snout of a weapon touch his head.

“Hands spread-eagled, please.”

He stopped, his mind racing, trying to think through the pain. Slowly he spread his hands.

“I knocked you down with a load of rubber,” came the voice, “but the rest are double-ought buck.”

The barrel remained on the back of his head while the person—he had no doubt it was Crew—searched him, removing the .45 and the .22 and the knife in his belt. He did not find the knife in Dajkovic’s boot.

“Roll over, keeping your hands in sight.”

With a wince, Dajkovic rolled over onto the dirt of the trail. He found himself facing a tall, lanky man in his mid-thirties, with straight black hair, a long nose, and intense, brilliant blue eyes. He was gripping a Remington 12-gauge with a practiced hand.

“Fine afternoon for a walk, isn’t it, Sergeant? Name’s Gideon Crew.”

Dajkovic stared.

“That’s right. I know a fair amount about you, Dajkovic. What sort of story did Tucker tell you to get you out here, looking for me?”

Dajkovic said nothing, his mind still working furiously. He was mortified the man had gotten the drop on him. But all was not lost—he still had the knife. And though Crew was a good fifteen years younger than he was, the fellow looked thin, weak—not a good physical specimen.

Crew gave him a smile. “Actually, I can probably guess what the good general told you.”

Dajkovic didn’t answer.

“It must have been quite a story, to turn you into a hired assassin like this. You’re not normally the kind of person to shoot someone in the back. He probably told you I was a traitor. In league with al-Qaeda, maybe—that would be the treason du jour, I guess. No doubt I’m abusing my position at Los Alamos, betraying my country. That would push all your buttons.”

Dajkovic stared at him. How the hell did he know that?

“He probably told you about my traitor father, what he did getting those agents killed.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Maybe he said traitorousness was a family tradition.”

Dajkovic’s mind was clearing. He had fucked up, but all he had to do was get his hands—one hand—on that knife in his boot and Crew was a dead man, even if he did manage to get off a shotgun blast.

“May I sit up?” Dajkovic asked.

“Slow and easy.”

Dajkovic sat up. The pain was mostly gone. Broken ribs were like that. Stopped hurting for a while and then the pain came back, twice as bad. He flushed at the thought of this weenie knocking him down with a load of rubber.

“I’ve got a question for you,” Crew said. “How do you know old man Tucker told you the truth?”

Dajkovic didn’t answer. He noticed for the first time that Crew’s right hand was missing the last joint of the ring finger.

“I was pretty sure Tucker would send an underling after me, because he’s not the kind to put himself on the front lines. I knew it would be someone he trusted, who’d served under him. I looked over his employees and figured you’d be the one. You led a marine SOF team in the Grenada invasion, securing the American medical school in advance of the main landing. Did a good job, too—not one student was hurt.”

Dajkovic remained poker-faced, waiting his opportunity.

“So: is your mind made up about me? Or are you willing to open your ears to a few facts that might not quite jibe with what General Tucker told you?”

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t going to give the scumbag an inch of satisfaction.

“Since I’m the one with the loaded shotgun, I guess you’re going to have to listen anyway. You like fairy tales, Sergeant? Here’s one for you, only nobody lives happily ever after. Once upon a time, back in August of 1988, there was a twelve-year-old boy…”

Dajkovic listened to the story. He knew it was bullshit, but he paid attention because a good soldier knew the value of information—even false information.

It only took five minutes. It was a pretty good story, well told. These types of people were always amazing liars.

When he was done, Crew pulled an envelope out of his pocket and tossed it at Dajkovic’s feet. “There’s the memo my father wrote Tucker. The reason why he was murdered.”

Dajkovic didn’t bother to pick it up. For a moment, the two just remained where they were, staring at each other.

“Well,” said Crew at last, shaking his head. “I guess I was naive to think I could convince an old soldier like you that his beloved commanding officer is a liar, coward, and murderer.” He thought for a moment. “I want you to bring Tucker a message. From me.”

Dajkovic remained grim-jawed.

“Tell him I’m going to destroy him like he destroyed my father. It’s going to be nice and slow. The memo I’ve released to the press will trigger an investigation. No doubt a news organization will put in a FOIA request to confirm the document is genuine. As the truth comes out, bit by bit, Tucker’s integrity will be impeached. In his line of work, even though everyone is corrupt, the appearance of integrity is pure gold. He’ll see his business dry up. Poor Tucker: did you know he’s leveraged up the wazoo? The mortgage on his McLean McMansion is swimming with the fishes. He owes a shitload on that tacky Pocono golf-club condo, the apartment in New York, and the yacht on the Jersey Shore.” Crew shook his head sadly. “Know what he calls that yacht? Urgent Fury. Funny, isn’t it? Tucker’s one weak-ass moment of glory. The Poconos, McLean, the Jersey Shore…the general can’t be accused of good taste, can he? Of course, the Upper East Side girlfriend was a step in the right direction, but she’s a hungry little bird, her beak open day and night. He hasn’t saved his money like a good boy should. But bankruptcy will only be the beginning, because the investigation will eventually show everything I just told you: that he framed my father and was himself responsible for the death of those twenty-six agents. He’s going to end up in prison.”

Dajkovic found Crew staring at him. Again, he said nothing. He could see Crew was getting frustrated at his lack of reaction.

“Let me ask you another question,” Crew said finally.

Dajkovic waited. His chance was coming—he felt it in his bones.

“Did you actually see Tucker under fire? What do you know of the guy as a soldier? I’ll bet Tucker didn’t set foot on land until the beachhead was totally secure.”

Dajkovic couldn’t help but remember how disappointed he’d been that Tucker seemed to be the very last soldier onto Grenada. But he was a general, one of the top commanders, and that was army protocol.

“Fuck it,” said Crew, taking a step backward. “It was a mistake to expect you might actually be capable of thinking. You got the message: go deliver it.”

“May I get up?”

“By all means, get your sorry ass up and out of here.”

The moment had arrived. Dajkovic placed his hands on the ground and began to rise to his feet; as his hands passed his boots he slipped out the knife and in one smooth motion threw it, aiming at Crew’s heart.

10

Gideon Crew saw the quick movement, the flash of steel; he threw himself sideways but it was too late. The knife slammed into his shoulder, burying itself almost to the hilt. As he fell back, trying to bring the shotgun up, Dajkovic leapt for him, ramming him backward with immense power and wrenching the shotgun from his hands. He heard a crack as his own head caromed off a stone.

For a moment, all went black. Then the world came back to him. Gideon was sprawled on the ground, staring into the barrel of his own shotgun. He could feel the knife in his shoulder, searing hot, the blood seeping out. He reached to pull it out.

“No.” Dajkovic stepped back. “Keep your hands away from your body. And say your prayers.”

“Don’t do this,” Gideon said.

Dajkovic racked a shell into the chamber.

He fought to think straight, to clear the fogginess from his head. “What do you know about me besides what Tucker said? Christ, can’t you think for yourself?”

Dajkovic raised the gun and looked him in the eye. Gideon felt desperation take hold: if he died, his father would never be vindicated, and Tucker would never get his comeuppance.

“You’re not a killer,” he said.

“For you, I’m going to make an exception.” Dajkovic’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“If you kill me, at least do me this one favor: take that envelope. Look into the story I told you. Follow the evidence. And then do what you think is right.”

Dajkovic paused.

“Find someone who was there in 1988. You’ll see. My father was shot down in cold blood—with his hands up. And that memo—it’s real. You’ll discover that, too, eventually. Because if you take my life you’ll also have to take on the responsibility of finding the truth.”

He found Dajkovic peering at him with a strange intensity. He wasn’t pulling the trigger—yet.

“Does it sound likely to you? Not that a guy with a top-secret security clearance at Los Alamos would be passing secrets to al-Qaeda—that’s possible. No—that General Tucker would know about it? And ask you to take care of it? Does that really make sense?”

“You have powerful friends.”

“Powerful friends? Like who?”

Slowly, Dajkovic lowered the shotgun. His face was slick with sweat, and he was pale. He looked almost sick. Then—kneeling abruptly—he reached for the knife in Gideon’s shoulder.

Gideon turned away. He’d failed. Dajkovic would cut his throat and leave his body in the dirt.

Grasping the knife, Dajkovic pulled it from the wound.

Gideon cried out. It felt as if his flesh had just been seared by a hot iron.

But Dajkovic didn’t raise the knife to strike again. Instead, he removed his own shirt and used the knife to cut it into strips. Gideon, head swimming in mingled pain and surprise, watched as the man used the strips to bind his shoulder.

“Hold that down,” Dajkovic said.

Gideon pressed the strips against the wound.

“We’d better get you to a hospital.”

Gideon nodded, breathing hard, gripping the bandaged shoulder. He could feel the blood soaking through already. He tried to overcome the searing pain, worse now that the knife was gone.

Dajkovic helped Gideon to his feet. “Can you walk?”

“It’s all downhill from here,” Gideon gasped.

Dajkovic half carried, half dragged him down the steep slope. In fifteen minutes, they were back at Dajkovic’s car. He helped Gideon into the passenger seat, blood smearing over the leather.

“Is this a rental?” Gideon asked, looking at the car. “You’re going to lose your deposit.”

The old soldier shut the door, came around and got in the driver’s seat, started the car. His face was pale, set, grim.

“So you believe me?” Gideon asked.

“You might say that.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Easy,” Dajkovic said, backing out of the parking spot. He threw the car into gear. “When a man realizes he’s going to die, everything is stripped down to essentials. Purified. No more bullshit. I’ve seen it in battle. And I saw it in your eyes, when you believed I was going to kill you. I saw your hatred, your desperation—and your sincerity. I knew then you were telling the truth. Which means…” He hesitated, gunned the engine, the rubber squealing on the macadam, the car shooting forward.

“Which means,” he resumed, “Tucker lied to me. And that makes me angry.”

11

What the hell’s this?”

Tucker rose quickly as Dajkovic pushed Gideon into the study, hands cuffed. The general stepped around from behind his desk, pulling a .45 and training it on Gideon.

For the first time, Gideon came face-to-face with his nemesis. In person, Chamblee Tucker looked even more well fed and well watered than in the dozens of pictures he had studied over the years. His neck bulged slightly over a starched collar; his cheeks were so closely shaved that they shone; his hair was trimmed to crew-cut perfection. His skin bore a spiderweb of veins marking the face of a drinking man. His outfit was pure Washington: power tie, blue suit, four-hundred-dollar shoes. The soulless study was of a piece with the man—wood paneling, interior-decorator antiques, Persian rugs, power wall plastered with photos and citations.

“Are you crazy?” Tucker said. “I didn’t tell you to bring him here. My God, Dajkovic, I thought you could handle this on your own!”

“I brought him here,” Dajkovic replied, “because he told me something completely different from what you said. And damned if it didn’t sound plausible.”

Tucker stared hard at Dajkovic. “You’d believe this scumbag over me?”

“General, I just want to know what’s going on. I’ve covered your back for years. I’ve done your work, clean and dirty, and I’ll continue to do it. But a funny thing happened on the side of that mountain—I began to believe this guy.”

“What the hell are you trying to tell me?”

“I’m beginning to have doubts, and the minute that happens, I’m no longer an effective soldier. You want me to get rid of this man? No problem. I’ll follow your orders. But I need to know what’s going on before I put a bullet into his head.”

Tucker stared at him for a long time, then broke eye contact and passed a hand over his bristly scalp. He stepped over to a well-polished cabinet, slid open a drawer, pulled out a glass and a bottle of Paddy, slammed them on the mahogany, and poured himself a few fingers. He swallowed it in one gulp. Then he glanced back at Dajkovic.

“Anyone see you come in?”

“No, sir.”

Tucker looked from Dajkovic to Gideon and back again. “What did he tell you, exactly?”

“That his father wasn’t a traitor. And that he isn’t a terrorist, or in league with them.”

Tucker carefully set down his glass. “All right. Truth is, I did tell you a bit of a story. His father didn’t pass secrets to the Soviets.”

“What did he do?”

“You got to remember, Dajkovic, we were in a war, a Cold War. In war, ugly things happen. You get collateral damage. We had a problem: an error was made. We rolled out a flawed code and some operatives died as a result. If that had come out, it would have taken down the entire cryptology section at a time when we desperately needed a new set of codes. His father had to be sacrificed for the greater good. You remember what it was like: them or us.”

Dajkovic nodded. “Yes, sir. I remember.”

“So now this fellow here, Gideon, more than twenty years later, is threatening me. Blackmailing me. Trying to tear down everything we’ve built, to destroy not only my reputation but the reputation of an entire group of dedicated, patriotic Americans. That’s why he has to be eliminated. You understand?”

“I get it,” said Dajkovic, with a slow smile. “You don’t have to work around the facts to get me to do something for you. I’m with you one hundred percent, whatever you need.”

“Are we clear what needs to be done?”

“Absolutely.”

Gideon said nothing and waited.

Tucker glanced down at the bottle and glass. “Drink on it?”

“No, thanks.”

Tucker poured himself another, slugged it back. “Trust me that this is for the best. You’re earning my eternal gratitude. Take him out through the garage and make sure no one sees you.”

Dajkovic nodded and gave Gideon a little push. “Let’s go.”

Gideon turned and headed toward the door, Dajkovic following. They passed into the front hall and headed toward the kitchen, walked to the back where a door evidently led out into the garage.

Gideon placed one handcuffed hand on the knob, realized it was locked. At the same moment he saw a quick movement out of the corner of his eye and instantly realized what was happening. Throwing himself sideways, he pitched himself into Dajkovic’s shoulder just as Tucker’s gun went off, but the round still caught Dajkovic in the back, slamming him forward into the closed door, the gun knocked from his hand. He sank to the floor with a grunt.

As Gideon spun and dove, he caught a glimpse of Tucker in the kitchen doorway, isosceles stance, pistol in hand. The gun barked again, this time aimed at him, blasting a hole in the Mexican tiled floor mere inches from his face. Gideon leapt to his feet, making a feint toward the general as if to charge.

The third shot came just as he made a ninety-degree lunge, throwing himself atop Dajkovic and grasping the .45 that lay against the far wall. He swung it around just as a fourth shot whistled past his ear. He raised the .45 but Tucker ducked back through the doorway.

Wasting no time, Gideon seized Dajkovic’s shirt and pulled him to cover behind the washing machine, then took cover there himself. He thought furiously. What would Tucker do? He couldn’t let them live; couldn’t call the cops; couldn’t run.

This was a fight to the finish.

He peered out at the empty doorway where Tucker had been. It led into the dining room, large and dark. Tucker was waiting for them there.

He heard a cough; Dajkovic suddenly grunted and rose. Almost simultaneously, rapid shots sounded from the doorway; Gideon ducked and two more rounds punched through the washing machine, water suddenly spraying from a cut hose.

Gideon got off a shot but Tucker had already disappeared back into the dining room.

“Give me the sidearm,” Dajkovic gasped, but without waiting for a reply his massive fist closed over the .45 in Gideon’s hand and took it. He struggled to rise.

“Wait,” said Gideon. “I’ll run across the room to the kitchen table, there. He’ll move to the doorway to get off a shot at me. That’ll put him right behind the door frame. Fire through the wall.”

Dajkovic nodded. Gideon took a deep breath, then jumped from behind the washing machine and darted over behind the table, realizing too late how badly exposed he really was.

With an inarticulate roar Dajkovic staggered forward like a wounded bear. Blood suddenly came streaming from his mouth, his eyes wild, and he charged the doorway, firing through the wall to the right of the door. He pulled up short in the middle of the kitchen, swaying, still roaring, emptying the magazine into the wall.

For a moment, there was no movement from the darkened dining room. Then the heavy figure of Tucker, spurting blood from half a dozen gunshot wounds, tumbled across the threshold, landing on the floor like a carcass of meat. And only then did Dajkovic sag to his knees, coughing, and roll to one side.

Gideon scrambled to his feet and kicked Tucker’s handgun away from his inert form. Then he knelt over Dajkovic. Fumbling in the man’s pockets, he fished out the handcuff key and unlocked the cuffs. “Take it easy,” he said, examining the wound. The bullet had gone through his back, low, evidently piercing a lung but, he hoped, missing other vital organs.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Dajkovic smiled, bloody lips stretching into a ghastly grimace. “You get it on tape?”

Gideon patted his pocket. “All of it.”

“Great,” Dajkovic gasped. He passed out with a smile on his face.

Gideon snapped off the digital recorder. He felt faint and the room began to spin as he heard sirens in the distance.

Gideon Crew

12

Gideon Crew picked his way down the steep slope toward Chihuahueños Creek, following an old pack trail. He could see the deep pockets and holes of the stream as it wound its way through the meadow at the bottom. At over nine thousand feet, the June air was crisp and fresh, the azure sky piled with cumulus clouds.

There would be a thunderstorm later, he thought.

His right shoulder was still a little painful, but the stitches had come out the week before and he could move his arm freely now. The knife wound had been deep but clean. The slight concussion he’d suffered in the tussle with Dajkovic had caused no further problems.

He came out into the sunlight and paused. It had been a month since he’d fished this little valley—just before going to Washington. He had achieved—spectacularly—the singular, overriding, and obsessive goal of his life. It was over. Tucker dead, disgraced; his father vindicated.

For the past decade, he had been so fixated on this one thing that he’d neglected everything else—friends, a relationship, career advancement. And now, with his goal realized, he felt an immense sense of release. Freedom. Now he could start living his life like a real person. He was only thirty-three; he had almost his entire life ahead of him. There were so many things he wanted to do.

Beginning with catching the monster cutthroat trout he was sure lurked in the big logjam pool in the creek below.

He breathed deeply the scent of grass and pine, trying to forget the past and to focus on the future. He looked around, drinking it in. This was his favorite place on planet earth. No one fished this stretch of creek except him: it lay far from a forest road and required a long and arduous hike. The wild cutthroats lying in the deep pools and under the banks were skittish and shy and hard to catch; a single false move, the shadow of a fly rod on the water, the heavy tread of a foot on the boggy grass, could ruin a pool for the rest of the day.

Gideon sat down cross-legged in the grass, far from the stream, shucked off his pack, and set down the fly-rod case. Unscrewing its end, he slid out the bamboo pieces and fitted them together, attached the reel, threaded the line through the loops, then sorted through his case for the right fly. Grasshoppers were scarce in the field, but there were enough that a few might have hopped into the water and gotten eaten. They’d make a credible lure. He selected a small green-and-yellow grasshopper fly from his case and tied it on. Leaving his pack and gear at the edge of the meadow, he crept across the grass, taking care to place his feet as lightly as possible. As he approached the first big pool, he crouched and twitched the rod, playing out a little line; and then, with a flick of the wrist, he dunked the fly lightly into the pool.

Almost instantly there was a heavy swirl of water, a strike.

Leaping to his feet, he raised the tip, putting tension on the line, and fought the fish. It was a big one, and a fighter, and it tried to run for a tangle of roots under the bank; but raising the tip farther, he used his thumb to increase the drag on the line, keeping the fish in the center of the pool. He slacked the line as the trout flashed for the surface, leaping and shaking its head, drops of water scintillating in the sun. Its muscular, brilliantly colored body caught the light, the red slash under its gills looking very much like blood; and it fell back and tried again to run. Again he increased the drag, but the fish was determined to get into the roots and fought him to the point where the leader was straining almost to the breaking point…

“Dr. Gideon Crew?”

Gideon jerked his head around, startled, and released the line. The fish took the slack and ran for the tangle of sunken roots; Gideon tried to recover and tighten the tension, but it was too late. The leader got wrapped around a root, the trout broke free, and the tip popped up, the line slack.

Overwhelmed with annoyance, he stared hard at the man standing twenty feet behind him, dressed in pressed khakis, brand-new hiking boots, a checked shirt, and sunglasses. He was an older man, in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, olive skin, and a face that looked very tired. And a bit scarred, as if he’d survived a fire. And yet, for all its weariness, the face was also very much alive.

With a muttered curse, Gideon reeled in the slack line, examined the fluttering leader. Then he looked up again at the man, who was waiting patiently, a faint smile on his lips. “Who the hell are you?”

The man stepped forward and held out a hand. “Manuel Garza.”

Gideon looked at it with a frown until the man withdrew it. “Excuse me for interrupting you during your time off,” Garza said. “But it couldn’t wait.” He continued to smile, remaining unnaturally composed. The man’s whole being seemed to radiate calmness and control. Gideon found it irritating.

“How did you find me?”

“An educated guess. We know this is where you sometimes fish. Also, we fixed a position on you when you last used your cell phone.”

“So you’re Big Brother. What’s this all about?”

“I’m not able to discuss that with you at this time.”

Could this be some blowback from the business with Tucker? But no: that was all over and done with, an unqualified success, the official questions all answered, he and his family’s name cleared. Gideon looked pointedly at his watch. “Cocktail hour is at six in my cabin. I’m sure you know where that is. See you then. I’m busy fishing.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Crew, but, like I said, it can’t wait.”

“It? What’s it?”

“A job.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a job. Up at Los Alamos. You know—the place where they design all the nice nuclear bombs?”

“Frankly, this job is more exciting and it pays a great deal more. A hundred thousand dollars for a week’s work. A job for which you are uniquely suited, which will benefit our country—and God knows you need the money. All those credit card debts…” Garza shook his head.

“Hey, who doesn’t have maxed-out credit cards? This is the land of the free, right?” Gideon hesitated. That was a lot of money. He needed money—bad. “So what’ll I be doing in this job of yours?”

“Again, I can’t tell you—yet. The helicopter is waiting up top—to take you to the Albuquerque airport, and from there by private jet to your assignment.”

“You came to get me in a chopper? Sink me.” Gideon vaguely remembered hearing the chopper. He’d ignored it; the Jemez Mountains, being remote, were often used for flight training from Kirtland AFB.

“We’re in a hurry.”

“I’ll say. Who do you represent?”

“Can’t tell you that, either.” Another smile and a gesture with his arm, palm extended, toward the pack trail to the top of the mesa. “Shall we?”

“My mother told me never to take chopper rides with strangers.”

“Dr. Crew, I’ll repeat what I said earlier: you will find this job to be interesting, challenging, and remunerative. Won’t you at least come with me to our company headquarters to hear the details?”

“Where?”

“In New York City.”

Gideon stared at him, then shook his head and snorted. A hundred thousand would get him well started on the many plans and ideas he’d been working up for his new life.

“Does it involve any illegality?”

“Absolutely not.”

“What the hell. I haven’t been to the Big Apple in a while. All right, lead the way, Manuel.”

13

Six hours later, the sun was setting over the Hudson River as the limousine pulled into Little West 12th Street, in the old Meatpacking District of Manhattan. The area had changed dramatically from what Gideon remembered during his graduate school days, when he’d come down from Boston for some occasional R&R: the old brick warehouses and covered walkways, with their chains and meat hooks, had been transformed into ultra-hip clothing stores and restaurants, slick high-rise condos and trendy hotels, the streets crowded with people too cool to be real.

The limousine bumped down the refurbished street—bone-jarring nineteenth-century cobblestones re-exposed—and came to a halt at a nondescript building, one of the few unrenovated structures within view.

“We’re here,” said Garza.

They stepped onto the sidewalk. It was much warmer in New York than in New Mexico. Gideon stared suspiciously at the building’s only entrance, a set of metal double doors on a loading dock plastered with old posters and graffiti. The building was large and imposing, some twelve stories tall. Near the top of the façade, he could just make out a painted legend: PRICE & PRICE PORK PACKING INC. Above it, the grimy brickwork gave way to glass and chrome; he wondered if a modern penthouse had been built atop the old structure.

He followed Garza up a set of concrete steps on one side of the dock. As they approached, the loading doors slid open on well-oiled hinges. Gideon followed Garza down a dim corridor to another set of doors, much newer, of stainless steel. Security keypads and a retinal scanner were set into the wall beside them. Garza put his briefcase on the floor and leaned his face into the scanner; the steel doors parted noiselessly.

“Where’s Maxwell Smart?” said Gideon, in full wiseass mode, looking around. Garza looked at him, no smile this time, but did not reply.

Beyond lay a vast, cavernous room, an open shell four stories high, illuminated by seemingly hundreds of halogen lights. Metal catwalks ran around the upper levels. The floor—as big as a football field—was covered with rows of large steel tables. On them rested a confusing welter of disparate items: half-dissected jet engines; highly complex 3-D models of urban areas; a scale model of what appeared to be a nuclear plant undergoing a terrorist attack by airplane. In a near corner was an especially large table, displaying what looked like a large, cutaway section of the seabed, showing its geological strata. Technicians in white coats moved between the tables, making notes on handheld PDAs or conferring in hushed whispers.

“This is corporate headquarters?” Gideon asked, looking around. “Looks more like Industrial Light and Magic.”

“I suppose you could call it magic,” Garza said as he led the way. “Of the manufactured variety.”

Gideon followed him past table after table. On one was a painstaking re-creation of Port au Prince, both before and after the earthquake, tiny flags on the latter marking patterns of devastation. On another table was a huge scale model of a space facility, all tubes and cylinders and solar panels.

“I recognize that,” Gideon said. “It’s the International Space Station.”

Garza nodded. “As it looked before leaving orbit.”

Gideon looked at him. “Leaving orbit?”

“To assume its secondary role.”

“Its what? You must be joking.”

Garza flashed him a mirthless smile. “If I thought you’d take me seriously, I wouldn’t have told you.”

“What in the world do you do here?”

“Engineering and more engineering, that’s all.”

Reaching the far wall, they rode an open-cage elevator up to the fourth-floor catwalk, then passed through a door that led to a maze of white corridors. Ultimately, they reached a low-ceilinged, windowless conference room. It was small and spartan in its lack of decor. A table of exotic, polished wood dominated the space, and there were no paintings or prints on the white walls. Gideon tried to think of a suitable crack, but nothing came immediately to mind. Besides, he realized it would be wasted on Garza, who seemed immune to his rapier-like wit.

At the head of the table sat a man in a wheelchair. He was perhaps the most extraordinary-looking human being Gideon had ever seen. Closely cropped brown hair, shot through with silver, covered a large head. Below a deep brow gleamed a single fierce gray eye which was fixed on him; the other eye was covered with a black silk patch, like a pirate’s. A jagged, livid scar lanced down the right side of the man’s face, starting at his hairline and running through the covered eye, continuing all the way to his jaw and disappearing under the collar of his crisp blue shirt. A black, pin-striped suit completed the sinister picture.

“Dr. Crew,” the figure said, his face breaking into a faint smile that did nothing to soften its hardness. “Thank you for coming all this way. Please sit down.”

Garza remained standing in the background as Gideon took a seat.

“What?” Gideon said, looking around. “No coffee or Fiji water?”

“My name is Eli Glinn,” said the figure, ignoring this. “Welcome to Effective Engineering Solutions, Incorporated.”

“Sorry in advance for not bringing my résumé. Your friend Garza was in a hurry.”

“I don’t like to waste time. So if you’d be kind enough to listen, I’ll brief you on the assignment.”

“Does it have anything to do with that Disney World downstairs? Plane crashes, natural disasters—you call that engineering?”

Glinn gazed at him mildly. “Among other things, EES specializes in the discipline of failure analysis.”

“Failure analysis?”

“Understanding how and why things fail—whether it be an assassination, an aviation accident, or a terrorist attack—is a critical component to solving engineering problems. Failure analysis is the other face of engineering.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Engineering is the science of figuring out how to do or make something. But that’s only half the challenge. The other half is analyzing all possible modes of failure—in order to avoid them. EES does both. We solve very difficult engineering problems. And we dissect failures. In both these tasks, we have never failed. Ever. With one minor exception, which we’re still working on.” He flicked his hand as if waving away a bothersome fly. “Those two things, engineering and failure analysis, form our primary business. Our visible business. But they are also our cover. Because behind our public façade, we use these same facilities to carry out, from time to time, highly unusual and confidential projects for special clients. Very special clients. We need you for one of these projects.”

“Why me?”

“I’ll get to that in a moment. First, the details. A Chinese scientist is on his way to the United States. We believe the man is carrying the plans for a new, high-technology weapon. We’re not certain, but we have reason to hope he may be defecting.”

Gideon was about to make a sarcastic quip, but the look in Glinn’s eye deterred him.

“For two years,” Glinn went on, “US intelligence has been aware of a mysterious project going on in an underground compound inside the Lop Nor nuclear testing zone in far western China. Staggering amounts of money and scientific talent have been devoted to this effort. The CIA believes they’re developing a new weapon, a kind of Chinese Manhattan Project, something that would change the balance of power completely.”

Gideon stared. “More destructive than the H-Bomb?”

“Yes, that’s the information we have. But now, one of the project’s chief scientists seems to have stolen the plans and is on his way to the United States. Why? We don’t know. We hope he might be defecting to the US with the plans for that weapon, but we can’t be sure.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Apparently, he was the victim of a successful honey trap at a scientific convention in Hong Kong.”

“Honey trap?”

“Surely you’ve heard the term. An attractive woman is employed to get the target in a compromising position, pictures are taken, pressure is then applied…But this honey trap went awry and triggered the man’s panicked flight from China.”

“Right. I get it. So when is this scientist supposed to arrive?”

“He’s on his way now. The man’s on a Japan Airlines flight to New York from Hong Kong. He changed planes in Tokyo nine hours ago and will land at JFK at eleven ten PM—that’s in four hours.”

“Jesus. Okay.”

“Your assignment is simple: tail the man from the airport and, as soon as possible, take those plans away from him and bring them here.”

“How?”

“That’s for you to figure out.”

“In four hours?”

Glinn nodded. “We don’t know what format the plans are in or where they’re hidden. They could be computer code in his laptop, hidden in a steganographic image, on a flash drive in his suitcase, or on an old-fashioned roll of film, for all we know.”

“This is a crazy assignment. Nobody could pull this off.”

“It is true that few could do this. That’s why we’ve reached out to you, Dr. Crew.”

“You’re kidding—right? I’ve never done anything like this before. My work at Los Alamos is in HE. No doubt you’ve got dozens of better-qualified people downstairs.”

“As it happens, you are uniquely suited to this assignment. For two reasons. First is your former career.”

“What career would that be?”

“As a thief. Robbing art museums.”

There was a sudden, freezing silence.

“Not the bigger museums, of course. The small private ones, generally, with less sophisticated intrusion-detection systems and lower-profile artwork.”

“I think you need to up your medication,” Gideon said in a low voice. “I’m no art thief. I don’t have even the slightest criminal record.”

“Which shows just how good you were. Such skills can be very valuable. Of course, you dropped this profession when a new and overriding interest came into your life. And with that we get to the second reason. You see, we followed with great interest your deft little operation against General Chamblee S. Tucker.”

Gideon tried to recover from this second surprise. He mustered up his most puzzled look. “Operation? Tucker went nuts and attacked me and one of his employees in his house.”

“So everyone thinks. I know better. I know that you spent the last ten years improving yourself, finishing college and getting your doctorate at MIT, all the while looking for a way to bring Tucker down and vindicate your father. I know how you managed to ‘liberate’ that top-secret document from the Directorate of Information Management, and how you used it to get at Tucker. He was a powerful man, and he had protected himself well. You showed enormous and varied skills setting up that operation, and then great self-possession in the aftermath of the shooting. You spun the business just right. Nobody doubted for a moment your narrative, even as you vindicated your father.”

Gideon felt sick. So this was what it was all about: blackmail. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come, come. Your secret is safe with me regardless. We ourselves were looking for the best way to bring Tucker down. For a special client of ours, naturally. You saved us the trouble. And that’s how you came to our attention.”

Gideon could think of nothing to say.

“Earlier you asked me: why you? The fact is, we know everything about you, Dr. Crew. And not just your burglary skills or run-in with General Tucker. We know about your difficult childhood. About your work at Los Alamos. About your proclivity for gourmet cooking. Your fondness for Hawaiian shirts and cashmere sweaters. Your taste in jazz. Your weakness for alcohol. And—when under the influence—women. The only thing we haven’t been able to learn is how you lost the top joint of your right ring finger.” He raised the brow of his good eye quizzically.

Gideon flushed with anger, took a few deep breaths, and got himself under control.

“If you won’t answer that, perhaps you’ll answer something else: did you plan to turn Dajkovic from the beginning?”

Again Gideon said nothing. It was unbelievable, incredible.

“You have my word whatever you say will stay within these walls. We are, as you might imagine, rather good at keeping secrets.”

Gideon hesitated. The truth was, Glinn had him by the short hairs. But he sensed, behind the hard, blank façade, that the man was truthful. “All right,” he finally said. “The whole thing was planned from beginning to end. I set up the ambush knowing Tucker wouldn’t come himself—the man was a coward. I’d studied his company and the people who worked for him. I figured he’d send Dajkovic, who was fundamentally a decent guy. I knew I could catch him and hoped I could turn him. It worked. We finished the…operation together.”

Glinn nodded. “As I thought. A masterpiece of social engineering on many levels. But you made one mistake. What was it?”

“I forgot to check his boot for that damn knife.”

Finally Glinn smiled, and for the first time his face seemed to be almost human. “Excellent. But the operation ended rather messily. Dajkovic got shot. How did that happen?”

“Tucker was no dummy. He realized Dajkovic was lying.”

“How?”

“Dajkovic failed to share a drink with him. We think that’s what tipped Tucker off.”

“Then that was Dajkovic’s mistake, not yours. I proved my point. You made only one mistake in that whole operation. I’ve never seen anything quite like what you did. You’re definitely the man for this job.”

“I had ten years to figure out how to take down Tucker. You’re giving me four hours for this one.”

“This is a far simpler problem.”

“And if I fail?”

“You won’t fail.”

A silence. “Another thing: what are you going to do with this Chinese weapon? I’m not going to do anything to harm my country.”

“The United States of America is, in fact, my client.”

“Come on, they’d be using the FBI for a job like this—not hiring a firm like yours, no matter how specialized.”

Glinn reached into his pocket and removed a card. He laid it on the table and pushed it toward Gideon with his finger.

He peered at the card, emblazoned with a government logo. “The Director of National Intelligence?”

“I would be dismayed if you believed anything I’m telling you. You can check it out for yourself. Call the Department of Homeland Security and ask to speak to this gentleman. He’ll confirm that we’re a DHS subcontractor doing legitimate and patriotic work for our country.”

“I’d never get through to a guy like that.”

“Use my name and you’ll be put through directly.”

Gideon did not pick up the card. He gazed at Glinn, and a silence built in the office. A hundred thousand dollars. The money was nice but this job looked fraught with difficulties. Danger. And Glinn’s confidence in him was sadly misplaced.

He shook his head. “Mr. Glinn, until a month ago my entire life was on hold. I had something I had to do. All my energy went into that one thing. Now I’m free. I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. I want to make friends, settle down, find someone, get married, have kids. I want to teach my son how to cast a dry fly. I’ve got all the time in the world now. This job of yours—well, it sounds dangerous as hell to me. I’ve taken enough risks for one lifetime. You understand? I’m not interested in your assignment.”

An even longer silence enveloped the room.

“Is that final?” Glinn asked.

“Yes.”

Glinn glanced at Garza and gave him a short nod. Garza reached into his briefcase, removed a file, and laid it on the table. It was a medical file, labeled with a red tab. Glinn opened it up to reveal a stack of X-rays, CT scans, and dense lab reports.

“What’s this?” said Gideon. “Whose X-rays are those?”

“Yours,” said Glinn, sorrowfully.

14

With a feeling of trepidation, Gideon reached over and took the file. The names had been cut out of the X-rays and scans, blacked out in the reports.

“What the hell is this? Where did you get these?”

“They came from the hospital where you were treated for your knife wound.”

“What’s this supposed to mean?”

“In the course of diagnosing and treating your injury, the usual tests were done: X-rays, MRIs, and blood work. Since you were suffering from a concussion, among other things, some of this work focused on your head. And the doctors made what is known as an incidental finding. They diagnosed you with an arteriovenous malformation—specifically, a condition known as a ‘vein of Galen aneurysmal malformation.’”

“What the hell’s that?”

“It’s an abnormal tangle of arteries and veins in the brain involving the great cerebral vein of Galen. It’s usually congenital, and usually asymptomatic until the age of twenty or so. And then it, ah, makes its presence known.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“Very.”

“What’s the treatment?”

“In your case, the AVM is in the Circle of Willis, deep in the brain. It’s inoperable. And invariably fatal.”

“Fatal? How? When?”

“In your case, the best estimate is that you have about a year.”

“A year?” Gideon’s head spun. “A year?” He choked trying to get the next question out, and swallowed. Bile rose in his throat.

Glinn continued matter-of-factly, his voice neutral. “To speak in more precise statistical terms, your chances of survival twelve months from now are about fifty percent; eighteen months, thirty percent; two years, less than five percent. The end typically comes very fast, with little or no warning. There’s typically no impairment or symptoms until that time, nor does the condition require any sort of physical or dietary restriction. In other words, you will live a normal life for about a year—and then you will die very, very quickly. The condition is incurable and in your case, as I said, there is no treatment whatsoever. It’s just one of those terrible finalities.”

Gideon stared at Glinn. This was monstrous. He felt a rage take hold, almost ungovernable. He leapt to his feet. “What is this, blackmail? If you sons of bitches think that’s the way to get me to do your bidding, you’re brainless.” He stared at the file. “It’s bullshit. Some sort of scam. If all that was true, they would’ve told me in the hospital. I don’t even know if these X-rays belong to me.”

Still speaking mildly, Glinn said, “We asked the hospital not to tell you; that it was a matter of national security. We wanted to get a second opinion. We passed the file along to Dr. Morton Stall at Mass General in Boston. He’s the world’s expert on AVMs. He confirmed both the diagnosis and the prognosis. Believe me, we were almost as shocked and dismayed to learn this as you are. We had big plans for you.”

“What’s the point of telling me this now?”

“Dr. Crew,” said Glinn, a kindly note in his voice, “trust me when I say that our sympathies are very much with you.”

Gideon stared at him, breathing hard. It was some ploy, or a mistake. “I just don’t believe it.”

“We looked into your condition with all the means at our disposal. We had been planning to hire you, offer you a permanent position here. This horrible diagnosis put us in a bind, and we were debating what to do. Then the news came in about Wu. This is a national security emergency of the highest order. You’re the only one we know who could pull this off, especially on such short notice. That’s why we’re laying this on you now, all at once—and for that I am truly sorry.”

Gideon passed a shaking hand over his forehead. “Your timing really sucks.”

“The timing is never right for a terminal illness.”

All his anger seemed to have evaporated as quickly as it had come. The horror of it made him sick. All the time he’d wasted…

“In the end, we had no choice. This is an emergency. We don’t know precisely what Wu is up to. We can’t miss this opportunity. If you decline, the FBI will jump in with their own op, which they’ve been eagerly pushing, and I can tell you it will be a disaster. You’ve got to decide, Gideon, in the next ten minutes, and I hope to God you will say yes.”

“This is fucked up. I can’t believe it.”

Silence. Gideon rose, walked to the frosted window. He turned. “I resent this. I resent the way you dragged me here, laid all this shit on me—and then have the gall to ask me to work for you.”

“This is not the way I would have wished it.”

“One year?” he asked. “That’s it? One fucking year?”

“In the file is a survival graph of the illness. It’s a matter of cold probabilities. It could be six months, a year, two on the outside.”

“And there are no treatments at all?”

“None.”

“I need a drink. Scotch.”

Garza pressed a button, and a wood panel slid to one side. A moment later a drink was laid on the table in front of Gideon.

He reached down, grasped it, took a slug, then another. He waited, feeling the numbing creep in his system. It didn’t help.

Glinn spoke quietly. “You could spend your last year amusing yourself, living life to the fullest, cramming it in till the end. Or you could spend it in another way—working for your country. All I can do is offer you the choice.”

Gideon drained the glass.

“Another?” Garza asked.

Gideon waved his hand in a no.

“You could do this one job for us,” said Glinn. “One week. Then decide. You’ll at least be able to walk away with enough money to live out your time in relative comfort.”

There was a pause. Gideon looked from the file, to Glinn, then back to the file.

“All right, Christ, I’ll take the assignment.” Gideon swept up the medical file. Then he looked once more at Glinn. “Just one thing. I’m going to take this with me and have it checked out. If it’s bullshit, I’m coming after you, personally.”

“Very well,” said Glinn, sliding a second folder toward him. “Here is information about your assignment. In there, you’ll find background information on and photographs of your target. His name is Wu Longwei, but he also calls himself Mark Wu. The adoption of a Western name is a common practice among Chinese professionals.” He leaned back. “Manuel?”

Garza stepped forward and laid a heavy brick of hundred-dollar bills on the table with one hand, and a Colt Python with the other.

“The money will cover your incidental expenses,” said Glinn. “You know how to use that firearm?”

Gideon scooped up the money and hefted the Python. “I would have preferred the satin stainless finish.”

“You will find the royal blue is better for night work,” said Glinn drily. “You must not, under any circumstances or for any reason whatsoever, try to make contact with us during the operation. If contact is necessary, we will find you. Understood?”

“Yes. Why?”

“An inquiring mind is an admirable quality,” said Glinn. “Mr. Garza, please show Dr. Crew out the back way. There’s no time to waste.”

As they headed toward the door, Glinn added: “Thank you, Gideon. Thank you very much.”

15

Gideon eased the stretch limo into an illegal space behind the taxi queue at the Terminal 1 arrivals level. He was still thinking about his call to the Department of Homeland Security, which he’d made from a pay phone as soon as he’d left EES. Avoiding the number on the business card, he’d called the general number, got some lowly operator, dropped Glinn’s name—and was immediately put through on a secure line to the director himself. Ten astonishing minutes later, he hung up, still wondering how in the world, out of everyone, they had picked him for this crazy assignment. The director would only repeat: We have complete faith and trust in Mr. Glinn. He has never failed us.

He shook off these thoughts, and then tried—less successfully—to shake off the far darker ones related to his health. There would be time for that later. Right now, he had to stay focused on one thing: the immediate problem at hand.

It was almost midnight, but Kennedy airport was frantically busy with the last wave of flights arriving from the Far East. As he idled at the curb, he saw two TSA officers staring at him. They strode over, scowls on their self-important faces.

He climbed out of the limo, his dark suit itchy in the sticky summer night, and favored them with an arrogant smirk.

“What do you think you’re doing?” said the first cop, small, thin, and aggressive as a ferret. He whipped out his ticket book. “The limo waiting area’s over there!” He gestured sharply, the leaves of the ticket book trembling with his irritation.

The second cop arrived huffing, and he was a big one. Big and slow. “What’s going on?” he asked, already apparently confused.

Gideon folded his long arms, propped a foot up on the fender, and gave the big one an easy smile. “Officer Costello, I presume?”

“Name’s Gorski,” came the reply.

“Ah,” said Gideon. “You remind me of Costello.”

“Don’t know anyone by that name,” said Gorski.

“There is no Officer Costello,” said the thin one. “We’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You’re not supposed to stop here.”

“I’m here to meet the VIP arrival…You know all about it…right?” Gideon winked and slid a pack of gum from his pocket. He peeled off the wrapper, eased out a stick, offered the pack around.

The fat one took a stick.

“Let’s see your hack license,” said the thin one, waving away the gum and shooting an annoyed glance at his partner.

Gideon slipped out the license he had “rented” along with the limo—at significant expense—and handed it over. The thin cop snatched it, stared, passed it to the other. The fat one pursed his lips, looking it over intently. Gideon folded the stick of gum into his mouth, chewed meditatively.

“You know you can’t stop here,” said the thin cop, his voice high. “I’m giving you a ticket, and then you better get over to where you belong.” He flipped open the book and began to write.

“Don’t do that,” said Gideon. “Tickets make me break out in hives.”

The officer scoffed.

“Guess you didn’t get the message,” said Gideon, with a shrug.

“Message?”

He smirked. “About who I’m meeting.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass who you’re meeting. You can’t stop here. No exceptions.” But the pen had halted. The fat one was still perusing the hack license, wet lips pursed in concentration.

Gideon waited.

“So who are you meeting?” the thin one finally asked.

Gideon’s grin broadened. “You know I can’t tell you that.” He checked his watch. “His plane’s arriving now. From the Far East. He’ll get the VIP treatment at customs, breeze right through and be expecting me. Inside. Not out here, on the curb, arguing with a couple of flat—I mean, security officers.”

Gorski handed him back the license. “License and stickers seem to be in order,” he said to no one in particular.

“We never got a Security or VIP arrival notice,” said the thin one. His tone was now several notches less confrontational. “I’m sorry, but the rules are the rules.”

Gideon rolled his eyes. “Nice. So you guys know nothing. No skin off my back. On second thought, go ahead and write the ticket. I’ll need it for my memo.” He shook his head sadly and started to get back in the limo.

The thin cop stared at Gideon, eyes narrowed. “If this is a security VIP arrival, we should’ve been told. Who is he, some politician?”

Gideon paused at the open door. “Let’s just say he’s one of your own. The Jefe. A man known to be just a tad irritable when there’s a fuckup.”

The two cops looked at each other. “You talking about the commissioner?”

“You didn’t hear it from me.”

“We should’ve gotten a VIP notification,” said Gorski, now in full whine.

Gideon decided it was time to get tough. He let the good-humored look fall from his face and glanced at his watch. “I guess I need to spell it out for you. It’s a simple story, easy to follow. If I don’t meet the Man at the bottom of the escalators in one fucking minute, the loose diarrhea is gonna hit the fan. And you know what I’m going to do about that? I’m going to write a memo that says I got shortstopped by two dumbass TSA cops who forgot to check their inbox for a VIP notification.” He pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket. “How do you spell your name, Gorski?”

“Um…” Gorski looked over at the other cop, unsure what to do.

Gideon turned to the thin one. “How about you? You want to be in the memo, too? What’s your name? Abbott?”

He gave them both a withering stare, first one, then the other.

They caved immediately. “We’ll keep an eye on your limo,” said the thin cop, nervously smoothing the front of his uniform. “You go ahead and meet him.”

“Right,” said Gorski. “No problem. We’ll be right here.”

“Good move. Why don’t you practice the ‘Who’s on First’ routine while you wait? I love that one.” Gideon brushed past them and walked briskly through the doors into the vast baggage claim area. Luggage carousels rumbled and creaked on both sides. In front stretched a double pair of escalators, people streaming down. Gideon joined the small group of fellow limo drivers waiting at the bottom of the escalators, each holding up a small sign with a name.

The escalators continued to pour down their river of human cargo. Gideon scrutinized each Asian face. He had memorized the two photos Glinn had given him of Wu, but there was always the danger that he was one of those people who photographed differently from how he looked.

But no—there he was. A small, intense-looking man with a high domed forehead, a fringe of hair, wearing old-fashioned black-framed glasses and a professorial tweed jacket. He descended the escalator, eyes cast down, shoulders slumped, looking as timid and inconspicuous as possible. He wasn’t even holding a carry-on bag or laptop.

Wu hit the bottom of the escalators, but instead of going to baggage claim he went straight ahead, walking fast, passing Gideon and heading out the doors toward the taxi stand.

Taken by surprise, Gideon hustled after him. There was no line at the taxi queue. Wu ducked under the waiting-line stanchions, grabbed a ticket from the dispatcher, and slipped in the first cab, a Ford Escape.

Gideon sprinted back to his limo.

“Hey! What’s up?” cried the thin guard.

“Wrong terminal!” Gideon shouted. “I made a mistake! Man, I’m really fucked now!” He snatched out a fifty-dollar bill he had tucked in his front suit coat pocket for emergencies and tossed it at them, leaping into the limo.

They scrambled for the bill as a summer breeze tumbled it along the sidewalk, and Gideon tore away from the curb and went after the rapidly vanishing cab.

16

Gideon sped down the terminal exit road, finally catching up to the cab as it looped onto the Van Wyck Expressway. He slowed down and continued at a measured pace, keeping the cab half a dozen car lengths ahead in the moderate late-night traffic. From time to time he switched lanes, dropping back and then moving forward, in case Wu was suspicious.

It was almost routine. Neither the cabdriver nor the scientist seemed to be aware they were being followed, despite the conspicuous stretch limo he was driving. Following the standard route into Upper Manhattan, the taxi merged onto the Grand Central Parkway and passed Citi Field, then La Guardia Airport. As they passed the RFK Bridge, the skyline of Midtown Manhattan came into view like a tapestry of glittering gems, shimmering over the dark waters of the East River. Entering Manhattan via the Third Avenue Bridge, the taxi bypassed FDR Drive, instead heading along 125th Street in East Harlem, until finally turning downtown at Park Avenue.

Wu probably has an Upper East Side destination, Gideon mused. Mentally he once again rehearsed his plan. He’d follow the taxi to its destination, then park nearby and…

Suddenly he noticed a black Lincoln Navigator with smoked windows approaching from behind, speeding down the slow lane and rapidly closing in.

The Navigator narrowed the gap until it was aggressively tailgating the taxi, although it could have easily passed. Gideon hung back. Despite the obviously new condition of the vehicle, the license plate light of the Navigator was burned out, the plate itself dark and unreadable.

Moving into the left lane, Gideon accelerated briefly to get a view inside the SUV through the windshield, but this late at night it was hopeless and he eased back, dropping behind once again, his sense of apprehension increasing.

The taxi, tailgated by the Navigator, accelerated, but the Navigator kept pace; the taxi then braked slightly and slowed, but the Navigator did the same, still refusing to pass.

This was not good.

The Navigator now crept forward until its massive chrome bumper touched the rear bumper of the cab—and then it accelerated with a roar, shoving the cab forward and sideways. With a terrific squeal of rubber the cab swerved, then recovered, fishtailing as it veered into the left lane. The Navigator swung in behind it and accelerated again, trying to ram it.

To avoid being hit, the taxi swerved back into the right lane and tried to slow down, but the Navigator, in a deft maneuver, swung in behind and rammed it again, this time with real force, and again the taxi driver had to accelerate to correct the deflection. The sound of his horn wailed across the wide avenue.

The Navigator jumped forward to ram the taxi again, but the cabbie swung into the left lane and then slewed around the corner onto East 116th Street, heading east. Here, in one of the main commercial districts of Spanish Harlem, there was suddenly more activity, the broad boulevard lit up and thronged with people despite the hour, the bars and restaurants open.

The Navigator made the turn with a howl of rubber and Gideon followed, the limo going into an awkward four-wheel power slide. Heart pounding, he accelerated after them. The Navigator’s driver wasn’t trying to force the cab to pull over; he was trying to kill its occupants by causing an accident.

The taxi accelerated in an attempt to outrun the Navigator. The two vehicles shot eastward on 116th, weaving in and out of traffic, provoking a furious blaring of horns, screeching tires, and yells. Gideon followed as best he could, sweaty hands slick on the wheel.

They tore past Lexington and approached the bright cluster of lights where 116th crossed Third Avenue. As they drew near at over seventy miles an hour, the light turned orange. Gideon braked the limo hard; there was no way they were going to make it. Suddenly the Navigator swung out and accelerated down the wrong side of the street, coming up alongside the taxi. Just before the intersection it swerved and gave the taxi a brutal sideswipe. With a billow of smoke the taxi slewed sideways through the intersection, clipped an oncoming car, flipped into the air, and went flying into a crowd outside a Puerto Rican lechonera. There was a dreadful sound, like the smack of sheet metal into meat. Bodies rag-dolled through the air, tumbling about the intersection. With a final shuddering crash the cab shattered the glass façade of the restaurant and came to rest with a death rattle and a burst of steam. Cooked meat came cascading out from racks and trays that had been on display in the window: roasted sides of pork, trays of cracklings, and spits of suckling pigs, all tumbling over the smashed taxicab and rolling about on the sidewalk.

There was a split second of terrible silence. And then the intersection exploded into an eruption of screams and shrieks as the crowd fled. To Gideon, looking on in horror, they resembled ants on a burning log.

He had pulled the limo over just before the intersection, and now he leapt out and ran toward the accident—just as a northbound city bus came roaring up Third Avenue, going at least fifteen miles over the speed limit. Halting at the crosswalk, Gideon watched helplessly as the bus blew on through; the driver, suddenly seeing bodies in the intersection, jammed on the brakes, but it was too late and he was unable to stop. The massive wheels thudded over several of the prostrate bodies, smearing them on the asphalt, and then the driver lost control. The bus skidded with a great shriek of burning rubber. Gideon watched helplessly as the careening bus T-boned a car on the far side of the intersection and came to rest on its side, the engine bursting into flame. Windows and the rear door of the bus were bashed open by screaming people and they spilled out, falling to the pavement, clawing and treading over one another in an attempt to get away.

Gideon looked around wildly for the Navigator. Then he spotted it, stopped partway down the next block. But the vehicle paused only for a moment: with a roar it tore off down 116th and swung south on Second Avenue, disappearing.

He sprinted across the intersection to the taxi. It lay upside down, its front partly inside the restaurant. Bodies were everywhere, some moving, some still. Gasoline ran over the sidewalk in a dark stream, moving down the gutter toward the burning bus—which exploded with a terrific roar, the force jumping the bus into the air. The flames mounted up, two, three, four stories, casting a hot lurid glow over the hellish scene. Hundreds of people from surrounding buildings were opening windows, craning necks, pointing. The air seemed to be alive with noise: screams and shrieks, pleas for help, agonized wails, the endless horn of the bus, the crackle of flame. It was all Gideon could do to keep a clear head.

Dropping to his hands and knees, he peered into the wrecked taxi. The driver’s side was totally mangled and he could get a glimpse of the cabbie, his body literally merged into the twisted metal and glass of the car. He scrambled around to the passenger rear side and there was Wu. The man was alive; his eyes were wide open, and his mouth was working. When he saw Gideon, he reached a bloody hand out to him.

Gideon grabbed the door handle, tried to open it. But the door was far too mangled to budge. He got down on his belly and reached inside the broken window, grasping the scientist by both arms. He hauled him out and onto the sidewalk as gently as he could. The man’s legs were horribly mangled and bleeding. Half dragging, half carrying Wu away from the spreading fire, he found a safe place around the corner and laid him carefully down. He took out his cell phone to call 911, but already he could hear, over the cacophony, sirens converging from every direction.

He vaguely became aware of a huge crowd of people behind him, rubberneckers keeping at a safe distance, watching the unfolding scene with prurient fascination.

The scientist suddenly grasped Gideon with a bloody hand, balling up the fabric of his chauffeur’s uniform in his fist. He had an expression in his eyes that was lost, puzzled, as if he didn’t know what had happened to him. He gasped out a word.

“What?” Gideon leaned closer, ear almost pressed to the scientist’s lips.

“Roger?” the man whispered in heavily accented English. “Roger?”

“Yes,” said Gideon, thinking fast. “That’s me. Roger.”

Wu said something in Chinese, then switched back to English. “Write these down. Quickly. Eight seven one zero five zero—”

“Wait.” Gideon fumbled in his pockets, extracted a pencil and a scrap of paper. “Start again.”

Wu began gasping out a list of numbers as Gideon wrote them down. Despite the heavy accent, his voice was thin, precise, punctilious: the voice of a scientist.

87105003302201401047836415600221120519715013 51010017502503362992421140099170520090080070 04003500278100065057616384370325300005844092 060001001001001

He halted.

“Is that it?” Gideon asked.

A nod. Wu closed his eyes. “You know…what to do with those,” he rasped.

“No. I don’t. Tell me—?”

But Wu had lapsed into unconsciousness.

Gideon stood up. He felt dazed and stupid. Blood from the scientist had stained his chest and arms. Fire trucks and police were arriving now, blocking the avenue. The bus was still afire, clouds of acrid black smoke roiling up into the night air.

“Oh my God!” a woman beside him said, crying openly, staring at the restaurant. “What a tragedy. What an awful tragedy.”

Gideon looked at her. Then—as police and paramedics and firemen rushed past him, sirens filling the air—he stood up and, abandoning his borrowed limo, now hemmed in by emergency vehicles, walked slowly and inconspicuously toward the subway entrance two blocks away.

17

Henriette Yveline lowered her clipboard, took down her reading glasses, and gazed at the young, bedraggled man in the dark suit who had come stumbling up to the emergency room admissions station. He was a fine-looking fellow, lanky, jet-black hair askew and flopping over his brilliant blue eyes. But my goodness, what a state he was in—hands, arms, and shirt caked with blood, eyes wild, stinking of gasoline and burned rubber. He was trembling all over.

“May I help you?” she said, firmly but not unkindly. She liked to keep an orderly ER waiting area—not an easy task at Mount Sinai Hospital on a hot Saturday night in June.

“God, yes, yes,” the man said all in a rush. “My—my friend, he just came in. A horrible car accident. Name’s Wu Longwei, but he calls himself Mark Wu.”

“And you are?”

The fellow swallowed, trying to get himself under control. “A close friend. Gideon Crew.”

“Thank you, Mr. Crew. May I ask if you’re all right yourself? No injuries, bleeding?”

“No, no, nothing,” he said distractedly. “It’s…it’s not my blood.”

“I understand. Just a moment, please.” She replaced her reading glasses and picked up the admissions clipboard, perused it. “Mr. Wu was admitted fifteen minutes ago. The doctors are with him now. Would you care to take a seat and wait?” She gestured toward the large, spare waiting room, half-filled with people, some crying softly, others with the long stare. A large family huddled in one corner, comforting a sobbing three-hundred-pound woman.

“Tell me, please,” said Gideon, “how is he?”

“I’m afraid I’m not authorized to release any information on that, Mr. Crew.”

“I need to see him. I’ve got to see him.”

“He can’t see anyone right now,” said Yveline, a little more firmly. “Trust me, the doctors are doing all they can.” She paused, and added a line that never failed to comfort: “Mount Sinai is one of the finest hospitals in the world.”

“At least tell me how he is.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but hospital rules won’t allow me to release medical information to anyone but family.”

The man stared. “But…what does that mean, family?”

“A relative with identification or a spouse.”

“Yes, but…you see, Mark and I…we’re…partners. Life partners.” Even under his bloody, dirty face, she could see him blushing at this intimate detail.

Yveline laid down the clipboard. “I understand. But I can only release information to a relative or legal spouse.”

“Legal? For God’s sake, you know perfectly well same-sex marriage is against the law in New York!”

“I’m so sorry, sir. The rules are the rules.”

“Is he dead?” The man’s voice suddenly became loud, very loud.

She looked at him, faintly alarmed. “Sir, please calm down.”

“Is that why you won’t tell me? Oh my God, is he dead?” He was shouting now.

“I need a piece of paper, some proof of your relationship…” Her voice trailed off. This had happened several times before: conflicts over gay and lesbian hospital visitation rights. The whole issue was under endless policy review—leaving it to people like her to run the gauntlet with the public. It wasn’t fair.

“Who carries around a wad of official documents?” The man began to cry. “We just got in from China!” He swiped the shock of hair out of his face, his eyes bloodshot, his lips trembling.

“I know you’re upset, sir, but we can’t give out medical information to someone claiming to be a domestic partner without some sort of proof.”

“Proof?” Gideon held out his bloody hands, his voice climbing into a shriek. “There’s your proof! Look at it! His blood on my hands! I’m the one who dragged him from the car!”

Yveline couldn’t even find the words to respond. The whole room was listening. Even the three-hundred-pound woman had stopped crying.

“I need to know!” And with this last wail, his knees buckled and the man collapsed on the floor.

Yveline pressed the emergency intercom, summoning the triage head nurse. The crowd stared at the man on the floor, but his collapse had been more emotional than medical and she saw he was already reviving. He rose to his knees, hyperventilating, and some members of the crowd rushed over to help him up.

“Help him to a seat,” said Yveline. “The nurse is on her way.” More people in the group responded, helping the man to a seat against the wall. He fell heavily into it, covering his face and sobbing loudly.

“Come on, lady,” said a woman. “What’s the harm in telling him how his friend is?”

A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd. Gideon Crew rocked in the chair, his face in his hands.

“He’s dead,” he said. “I know it. He’s dead.”

Yveline ignored the people and went back to her clipboard. It was a damn shame the rules forced her to be this way. But she was determined not to show vacillation or weakness.

“Why don’t you just tell him how his friend is?” persisted the woman.

“Ma’am,” said Yveline, “I don’t make the rules. Medical information is private.”

A harried nurse arrived. “Where’s the patient?”

“He’s upset—collapsed.” Yveline indicated the man.

The nurse went over, suddenly putting on a smooth voice. “Hello, my name’s Rose. What’s the problem?”

The man choked up. “He’s dead and they won’t tell me.”

“Who?”

“My life partner. In the ER. But they won’t tell me anything because I don’t have a piece of paper.”

“You’re in a long-term domestic partnership?”

A nod. “Five years. He’s everything to me. He doesn’t have any family here.” He looked up suddenly, beseechingly. “Please don’t let him die alone!”

“May I?” The nurse took the man’s pulse, slapped a cuff on him and took his blood pressure. “You’re okay. Just upset. Just slow down your breathing and let me talk to the admitting staff.”

The man nodded, struggling to get his gasping under control.

The nurse stepped over to Yveline. “Look, let’s just authorize him as a domestic partner. Okay? I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Thank you.” The nurse left while Yveline called up the electronic file, read the latest update. “Mr. Crew?”

He leapt up and came over.

“Your friend is critically injured but alive and is stabilizing,” she said in a low voice. “Now if you’ll come up and sign this form, I’ll authorize you as his domestic partner.”

“Thank God!” he cried. “He’s alive, thanks be to God!”

The waiting room broke into applause.

18

Gideon Crew looked around at the room he had booked at the Howard Johnson Motor Lodge on Eighth Avenue. It was surprisingly decent, well appointed, not a trace of blue and orange to be seen. Best of all, it had an iPod dock. He slipped out his iPod, pondered the problem at hand, dialed in Bill Evans’s Blue in Green, and docked it. The bittersweet chords of “The Two Lonely People” filled the room. He gulped the last of his quintuple espresso and tossed the cup into the trash.

For several minutes, he sat motionless in the chair by the small desk, allowing the moody, introspective music to wash over him, willing himself to relax muscle by muscle, letting the events of the day sort themselves out in his mind. Just fifteen hours earlier, he’d been fishing for trout in Chihuahueños Creek. Now here he was, sitting in a Manhattan hotel room, with twenty thousand dollars in his pocket, a death sentence on his head, and a strange man’s blood on his hands.

He stood up, shrugged out of his shirt, and walked into the bathroom to wash his hands and arms. Then he stepped out and put on a fresh shirt. Covering the bed with plastic garbage bags, he carefully spread out Wu’s clothes, which had been cut off in the emergency room and already gone into the medical-waste stream. He’d had a devil of a time retrieving them. A heartwarming Christmas story about a broken promise, a Hong Kong tailor, and a lost puppy had finally done the trick—but just barely.

After the clothes were carefully arranged, Gideon laid out the contents of Wu’s wallet, the spare change from his pockets, passport, rollerball, and an old-fashioned safety razor in a plastic case, no blade, which he had found in Wu’s suit coat pocket. That was all. No cell phone, no BlackBerry, no calculator, no flash drive.

As he worked, dawn broke over the city, the hotel windows shifting from gray to yellow, the city waking up with car horns and traffic.

When everything was laid out in geometric precision, he looked it over, finger pensively placed on his lower lip. If the man was carrying the plans for a new kind of weapon, it was not at all obvious where they were—if he had even been carrying them on his person. Clearly, the list of numbers Wu had gasped out to him at the accident scene couldn’t be the complete set of plans—such plans, even in highly compressed form, would take up a significant amount of data. They would have to be stored digitally, which meant he was looking for a microchip; a magnetic or bubble memory device; a holographic image stored on some medium; or perhaps a laser-read storage device such as a CD or DVD.

It seemed logical that the man would have kept the plans on his person—or, more exotically, perhaps embedded within his body. Shuddering slightly, Gideon decided he would deal with the “inside” question later—first he would carefully search all of Wu’s few possessions.

From a group of shopping bags dumped by the door, he removed an electronic device he had just purchased—amazing how in Manhattan you could get anything at any time of the night or day, from bombs to blow jobs—opened the box, and began setting it up. Called the MAG 55W05 Advanced Countermeasures Sweep Kit, it was a device used by private investigators, CEOs, and other paranoid people to sweep areas for bugs. Completing the assembly, he perused the manual quickly, then fired it up.

With painstaking slowness, he moved the device’s sweeping wand over the clothing spread out on the bed. No hits. The wallet and its contents—money, business cards, family photos—were also negative, except for the magnetic stripe on the single credit card Wu carried. When the sweeping wand went over the magnetic stripe, the MAG 55 bleeped and blinked and bars went flickering up and down the LED screen. It seemed there was data on the stripe, but exactly how much he couldn’t be sure: all the MAG 55 told him was that it was less than 64K. He’d have to find some way of downloading and examining it.

Wu’s Chinese passport also contained an embedded magnetic stripe along the outer edge of the front cover, just as US passports did. Using the integrated reader of the device, he was able to determine that this stripe held data, and that it, too, was less than 64K. He scratched his head thoughtfully. That seemed too small to credibly detail the workings of a secret weapon. Advanced technology could compress data a great deal, but he wasn’t sure just how much.

The passport and credit card would have to be further analyzed.

He threw himself in a wing chair, closing his eyes. He hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours. He listened to the rich chord progressions of “Very Early,” letting his mind wander through the swirling colors and rhythms. His father had been a jazz aficionado and he remembered him every evening in his easy chair, head bent over the hi-fi, listening to Charlie Parker and Fats Waller, his foot tapping to the music, his bald head nodding. It was the only music Gideon listened to, and he knew it well, very well…

The next thing he knew, he was waking up, the closing bars of “If You Could See Me Now” fading on the player.

He got up, went into the bathroom, stuck his head under the faucet, and turned on the cold water. Toweling his head dry, he emerged with a new spring in his step. Gideon had an ability to get by on very little sleep, and to wake from catnaps feeling completely refreshed. It was now almost nine AM, and he could hear the maids talking in the hall.

Packing away the sweep kit, he began a painstaking visual examination of Wu’s clothing with a jewelry loupe, using an X-Acto knife to open up seams and double layers. The clothing was stiff, soaked with blood in places, with bits and pieces of metal, glass, and plastic stuck to it. He removed each piece with tweezers, laying it on a paper towel for further examination. The trousers in particular were bloody and shredded. Where the blood was thick and caked, he carefully soaked the area with wet paper towels, then blotted it dry, picking out every little piece.

Four hours later he had finished. Nothing.

Now for the shoes. He had saved the most likely hiding place for last.

Noon. He hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before, a sandwich up in the mountains, and now the only substance inside his stomach was a dozen espressos. It felt like he’d drunk a pint of battery acid. No matter: he picked up the phone and ordered a triple espresso from room service, hot, hot.

He took the shoes out of a paper bag and set them on the coffee table. They were Chinese-made knockoffs of John Lobbs. Both were caked with hardened blood—Wu’s legs had been crushed. One shoe was horribly mangled and had been cut off the foot; the other was merely caked in gore. In the summer heat, they had already begun to smell.

Clearing a space, he examined the right shoe with the sweep kit. Nothing. A knock came on the door and he went outside—keeping the door mostly shut—took the coffee, tipped the bellhop, and drank it down with a single gulp.

Ignoring the boiling feeling in the pit of his stomach, he went back to work, taking the shoe apart, methodically, piece by piece, and labeling each with a felt-tipped pen. First the heel came off; then he unstitched the sole and detached it, laying the pegs and stitches in neat rows to one side. With the X-Acto blade, he unstitched all the leather pieces and laid them out. The heel was of leather, built up in layers, and he carefully separated each layer and laid them side by side. A second sweep revealed nothing. Still using the X-Acto knife, he split every piece of leather, examining both sides and sweeping them all again. Yet again, nothing.

He repeated the process on the other shoe without success.

Gideon packed everything away in ziplock bags, labeling each one, and then sorted and stacked it all into a large Pelican case he had bought for the purpose, locking it up tight. He leaned back in the chair. “Sink me,” he muttered exasperatedly. This was getting tedious. The thought of all the money Glinn had promised revived him a little.

Now for the inside work. It seemed unlikely, but he had to be thorough. But first: Music to Search Entrails By. Something a little more stretched out. He decided on Cecil Taylor’s Air.

He picked up a thick manila folder from the bedside table—the complete suite of ER X-rays, head to toe, to which he was entitled as Wu’s “life partner.” Pulling the shade off the lamp, he held up the first X-ray to the bulb and examined it with the loupe, inch by careful inch. The head, upper chest, and arms were clean, but when he came to the lower midsection his heart just about stopped: there was a small white spot indicating metal. He grabbed the loupe and examined it, and was immediately disappointed. It was indeed a fragment of metal, but nothing more than a twisted piece that had obviously gotten embedded in the car accident. It was not a microchip, or a tiny metal canister, or secret spy gizmo.

There was nothing in the stomach or intestinal tract indicating any sort of container, balloon, or storage device. Nothing in the rectum, either.

It horrified him to look at the X-rays of the legs. Embedded in them were more than a dozen bits of metal—all showing as irregular white spots, along with grayer pieces that he guessed were fragments of glass and plastic. The X-rays had been taken from several directions, and he was able to get a crude idea of the shape of each piece—and none of them even remotely resembled a computer chip, a tiny canister or capsule, or a magnetic or laser storage device.

He had a vision of the owlish man descending the escalators, frightened and peering about, small, serious—and courageous. For the first time Gideon considered the risk the man had taken. Why had he done it? It would be a miracle if the man ever walked again. If he even survived. At the hospital, Wu had remained in a coma; they’d had to cut a hole in his cranium to relieve the pressure. Gideon reminded himself that this hadn’t been an accident. It was attempted murder. No, with the death of the innocent cabdriver and half a dozen bystanders it was actual murder—mass murder.

Shaking off these thoughts, he slid the X-rays back into their manila folder and rose, going to the window. It was late afternoon—he’d been at it all day. The sun was already setting, the long yellow light spilling down 51st Street, the pedestrians casting gaunt shadows.

He’d hit a dead end—or so it seemed. What now?

His growling stomach reminded him it was high time to put something in there besides coffee. Something good. He picked up the phone, dialed room service, and put in an order for two dozen raw oysters on the half shell.

19

The police junkyard was located on the Harlem River in the South Bronx, in the shadow of the Willis Avenue Bridge. Gideon stepped out of the cab to find himself in a bleak zone of warehouses, and industrial lots stacked with old railroad cars, abandoned school buses, and rusting containers. A smell of muck and dead clams came drifting off the river, and the white-noise of evening rush-hour traffic on the Major Deegan Expressway hummed in the air like a hive of bees. He’d lived in a neighborhood not much different from this—the last in a succession of increasingly squalid homes he’d shared with his mother. Even the smell was familiar. It was an intensely depressing thought.

A chain-link fence topped with concertina wire surrounded the facility, fronted by a rolling gate on wheels next to a guardhouse. Beyond the fence sat an almost empty parking lot fringed by dying sumacs, behind which squatted a long warehouse. Beyond that and to the right lay an open-air junkyard of stacked and pancaked cars.

Gideon strolled up to the guardhouse. A swarthy-looking cop sat behind the plastic windows, reading a book. As Gideon approached, he slid open the street-side window with a hammy arm covered with gorilla hair. “Yeah?”

“Hi,” said Gideon. “I was wondering if you could help me?”

“What?” The cop still had his nose in the book. Gideon shifted to see the cover: he was surprised to see it was City of God by Saint Augustine.

“Well,” said Gideon, putting on his most fawning, obsequious tone, “I’m so sorry to bother you.”

“No bother,” said the cop, finally putting down the book.

Gideon was relieved to see that, despite the beetling Neanderthal brows and heavy five o’clock shadow, the man had a friendly, open face. “My brother-in-law,” Gideon began, “Tony Martinelli, he’s the cabbie that was killed in that accident last night. The one where a guy ran him off the road on a Hundred Sixteenth Street—you read about that?”

Now the cop was interested. “Of course. Worst traffic accident in years—it was all over the news. He was your brother-in-law? I’m sorry.”

“My sister’s really broken up about it. It’s just terrible—got two babies at home, one and three, no money, big mortgage on the house.”

“That’s really tough,” said the cop, laying the book aside and appearing genuinely concerned.

Gideon took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow. “Well,” he said, “here’s the thing. He had a religious medallion hanging from the rearview mirror. It was a beautiful one, sterling silver, owned it forever. Saint Christopher.”

The cop nodded in understanding.

“Tony went to Italy, the Jubilee Year in 2000—and the pope blessed that medallion. Blessed it personally. I don’t know if you’re Catholic, but Saint Christopher’s the patron saint of travelers, and he being a cabbie and all—well, that medallion was the most precious thing he owned. That moment with the pope was the high point of his life.”

“I’m Catholic,” said the cop. “I know all about it.”

“That’s good, I’m glad you understand. I don’t know if you can do this or not, and I wouldn’t want to get you into trouble—but it would mean so much to his widow if she could have that medallion back. To, you know, put in the casket and bury it with her husband. It would give her such comfort to be able to do that…” His voice cracked. “Excuse me,” he said, fumbling out a kerchief he had bought for that purpose, blowing his nose.

The officer shifted uncomfortably. “I understand what you’re saying. I feel for her and her kids, I really do. But here’s the thing.”

Gideon waited patiently.

“Here’s the thing,” the cop repeated uneasily, seeking a way to say it. “The wrecked car is evidence in a homicide investigation. It’s locked up right now, nobody can even get to it.”

“Locked up?”

“Yeah. Inside an evidence cage in there.” He jerked a thumb toward the warehouse.

“But surely someone could just go in there and get the medallion off the mirror? That’s not evidence.”

“I understand. I really do. But that taxicab’s totally locked up. It’s in a chain-link cage, with a chain-link roof over it and everything. And the warehouse itself is locked and alarmed. You’ve got to understand, chain of custody for evidence is crucial in a case like this. The cab is evidence: there are scratches on it, paint from the other vehicle, evidence of ramming. This is a major homicide case—seven people died in that accident and others were badly injured. And they’re still looking for the scumbag who did it. Nobody can get in there except authorized personnel, and even then only by filling out forms and going through red tape. And everything they do to the car has to be videotaped. It’s for a good reason, to help us catch those responsible and make sure they’re convicted.”

Gideon’s face fell. “I see. That’s too bad, it would mean so much.” He looked up, brightening, as with a new idea. “Tony won’t be buried for a week or two, at least. Will it be locked up very long?”

“The way these things work, that cab will be locked up until the guys are caught, there’s a trial, maybe an appeal…It could be years. I wish it wasn’t like that.” The officer spread his hands. “Years.”

“What am I going to tell my sister? You say the warehouse is alarmed?”

“Alarmed and guarded, twenty-four seven. And even if you could get in there, as I said, the vehicle’s locked inside an evidence cage way in the back and not even the guard has a key.”

Gideon rubbed his chin. “Chain-link cage?”

“Yeah, sort of like those cages they use in Guantánamo.”

“The cage is also alarmed?”

“No.”

“How’s the warehouse alarmed?”

“Doors and windows.”

“Motion sensors? Lasers?”

“Nah, there’s a guard who makes his rounds every half hour in there. I think it’s just the doors and windows that have alarms.”

“Video cameras?”

“Yeah, they’re all over. The whole area’s covered.” He paused, his face becoming serious. “Don’t even think about it.”

Gideon shook his head. “You’re right. What the hell am I thinking?”

“Be patient. Eventually you’ll get that medallion back, and maybe by then you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing the perp doing twenty-five to life at Rikers Island.”

“I hope they fry the bastard.”

The cop reached out and laid a hammy hand on Gideon’s. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Gideon nodded quickly, pressed the cop’s hand, and walked off. When he reached the end of the block, he turned and looked back. He could see, under the eaves of the warehouse’s corners, a cluster of surveillance cameras providing full coverage of the outdoor area. He counted them: twelve from this vantage point alone. There would be many more on the other side of the building and an equal number within.

He turned and pondered what he’d learned. The fact was, most of what people called security systems were pastiches, just a lot of expensive electronic shit slapped up willy-nilly with no thought to building a coordinated, comprehensive network. One of Gideon’s worst habits, which ruined his enjoyment of museum-going, was his propensity to figure out how many ways he could rip the museum off: wireless transmitters, vibration and motion sensors, noncontact IR detectors, ultrasound—it was all so obvious.

He shook his head with something almost like regret. There would be no challenge here at the police warehouse—none at all.

20

Three o’clock in the morning. Gideon Crew sauntered down Brown Place and crossed 132nd Street, weaving slightly, muttering to himself. He was wearing baggy jeans and a thin hoodie sporting a Cab Calloway silkscreen—a nice touch, he thought—which flopped over his face. The fake gut he had purchased at a theatrical supply store hung hot and heavy on his midriff, and it pressed heavily on the Colt Python snugged into his waistband against his skin.

He crossed the street, stumbled on the opposite curb, and continued down 132nd toward Pulaski Park, alongside the chain-link fence surrounding the police warehouse. The sodium lamps cast a bright urine glow everywhere, and the separate security floods around the warehouse added their own brilliant white to the mix. The gatehouse was empty, the gate shut and locked, the rolls of concertina wire at the top of the fence gleaming in the light.

Reaching the point where the fence made a turn toward an old set of railroad tracks across an overgrown and abandoned parking lot, now used for storage of old tractor-trailers, he staggered around the corner, searching here and there as if looking for a place to piss. There was no one in the area he could see, and he doubted anyone was watching, but he felt certain the surveillance cameras were recording his every move; they probably weren’t monitored in real time, but they surely would be scrutinized later.

Staggering alongside the fence, he unzipped his fly, took a steaming leak, then continued to the tracks. Turning again, now out of sight from the street, he suddenly crouched, reached into his pocket, and pulled a stocking down over his face. The bottom of the chain-link fence was anchored into a cement apron with bent pieces of rebar and could not be pulled up. Reaching under his baggy sweatshirt, he pulled out a pair of bolt cutters and cut the links along the bottom, then up one side beside a pole. Grasping the cut section of links, he bent them inward. In another moment he was inside. He pushed the flap of chain link back into place and looked around.

The warehouse had two huge doors in the front and back, into which had been set smaller doors. He scooted up to the back door and found, as expected, a numerical keypad with a small LED screen to set or turn off the alarm. No peephole or window—the door was blank metal.

Naturally, he didn’t know the code to turn off the alarm. But there was someone who did, inside; all he needed to do was summon him.

He knocked on the door and waited.

Silence.

He knocked again, louder. “Yo!” he called.

And now he could hear, inside, the sound of the guard moving toward the door.

“Who is it?” came the disembodied voice.

“Officers Halsey and Medina,” Gideon barked out in a loud, officious voice. “You okay? We got a silent alarm going at the precinct house.”

“Silent alarm? I don’t know anything about it.” Gideon waited as the guard pressed the password into the keypad on the other side. The numbers came up only as asterisks on the external LED screen.

As the door began to open, Gideon ducked back around the corner, then fled to the outdoor wrecking yard he’d previously picked out as a hiding place. He climbed a stack of pancaked cars and lay down on top, watching and waiting.

“Hey!” shouted the guard at the threshold of the open door, looking about in a panic but not daring to venture outside. “Who’s there?” There was real alarm in his voice.

Gideon waited.

An alarm began to whoop—the guard had pulled it, right on cue—and within five minutes the cop cars arrived, three of them screeching up at the curb, the occupants leaping out. Six cops.

Gideon smiled. The more the merrier.

They began a search of the place, three taking the inside of the warehouse, and three searching the wrecking yard. Naturally, most of them being out of shape, they did not attempt to climb the stacks of crushed cars. Gideon watched them poking and shining their lights all over for about thirty minutes, amusing himself by reconstructing the complex bass line of the Cecil Taylor number he’d listened to the previous afternoon. They then inspected the perimeter fence but, as he’d figured, missed the carefully concealed gap he’d created.

Meanwhile, just as he’d hoped, the other three cops and the guard were coming and going from the warehouse without bothering to shut, lock, or alarm the door in their haste. Finally, search completed, the six cops gathered in the parking lot with the guard beside their cars, where they radioed back to the precinct.

Gideon climbed down the heap of flattened cars, ran out of the junkyard, flitted across the parking lot, and flattened himself against the warehouse wall. He crept up to the door, which was still halfway open, and slipped inside.

Keeping to the shadows, he found a new hiding place inside the warehouse, in a far corner behind two deep rows of chain-link cages, each protecting a car. It was stifling in the building, the muggy dead air redolent of gasoline, oil, and burned rubber.

Another fifteen minutes passed and the guard came back in, shutting and locking the door behind him and resetting the alarm. Gideon watched as the man walked the length of the warehouse and settled into a lighted area at the far end, replete with a chair and desk, a huge bank of CCTV monitors—and a television set.

And sure enough, the guard turned on the set, swung his feet up, and began to watch. It was some old show, and every few moments there was a laugh track. He listened. Was that really the penetrating voice of Lucille Ball and the answering bark of Ricky Ricardo? God bless the unions, Gideon thought, that had fought so hard for the right of municipal employees on night duty to have access to a TV set.

On his hands and knees, Gideon crawled along the row of cages, peering inside, until at last he found the wrecked Ford Escape. He removed the bolt cutters and a thick cotton rag. Winding the rag around the first chain link, he waited for the laugh track; made the cut; rewound the rag around the next link; waited for the laugh track; cut again.

He finished as the show ended with the usual burst of pseudo-Copacabana music. Opening the flap he’d created, he crawled inside.

The car was an absolute mess. It had been pried apart and cut into several pieces that were so mangled they were only vaguely recognizable as belonging to a vehicle. It was still drenched in blood and gore and smelled like a butcher shop on a hot summer’s day. Crawling around it, Gideon located the rear passenger area where Wu had been sitting and wormed his way inside. The seat was sticky with blood.

Trying his best to tune this out, he forced his hands into the space behind and groped around. Almost immediately he felt something hard and small. He grasped it, slipped it into a ziplock bag he pulled from his pocket, and sealed the bag with a feeling of triumph.

A cell phone.

21

In Roland Blocker’s four years of working the night shift at the warehouse, nothing had ever happened. Absolutely nothing. Night after night it was the same routine, the same rounds, the same comforting parade of late-night, black-and-white television sitcoms. Blocker loved the peace and quiet of the vast space. He had always felt safe, cocooned in the warehouse with its heavy metal doors and alarms and ceaselessly vigilant cameras, all safely enclosed within a twelve-foot chain-link fence topped by concertina wire. He’d never been bothered, no burglary attempts, nothing. After all, there was nothing to steal either inside or out—except wrecked cars, cars hauled out of the rivers with dead bodies in them, cars found with bodies locked in their trunks, burned-out cars, drug-smuggling cars, shot-up cars. What was there to steal?

But now, after the incident, with the cops gone, he felt spooked for the first time. That had been the strangest damn thing, that voice outside the door. Had he really heard it? A couple of the cops who’d responded to his alarm hinted around that maybe he’d been sleeping and had a dream. That pissed Blocker off—he never slept on the job. The surveillance cameras were always on and God only knew who might check the tapes later.

I Love Lucy had ended and the next show up was The Beverly Hillbillies, Blocker’s favorite of the night’s lineup. He tried to relax as the theme song started, the twang of banjos and the overdone hick accent always making him smile. He bent down to crank up the A/C and adjust the vents so they blew more directly on him.

And then he heard a sound. A clink—as if a piece of metal had dropped lightly onto the cement floor of the warehouse. He dropped his legs off the desk and, fumbling for the remote, muted the TV set to listen.

Clank came the sound again, closer this time. Suddenly his heart was pounding in his chest. First the voice, now this. He scanned the bank of inside CCTV monitors, but they showed nothing.

Should he pull the alarm again? No, the cops would never let him live that down. He considered calling out and realized that was plain stupid—if some intruder was in the warehouse, they wouldn’t answer.

Heaving himself out of the chair, Blocker unhooked his Maglite and headed in the direction of the second sound, moving cautiously, his free hand resting easily on the butt of his service piece.

Reaching the area from which the sound had come, he shone the light around. This corner contained stacked pallets of old shrink-wrapped pieces of cars, all labeled—evidence that had been cut from vehicles years before but couldn’t yet be tossed.

Nothing. He was just nervous, spooked by the earlier thing—that was all. Maybe rats had gotten into the warehouse. He went back to his little office and sat down, turning the sound of the television up, a little higher than usual this time. The noise comforted him. It was the episode where the banker fakes an attack of wild Indians on the Clampett mansion, one of his favorites. He cracked open a fresh Diet Coke and settled down to enjoy it.

Clank.

He sat up again, muting the television, listening intently.

Clank.

It was such a regular sound, unnatural, almost deliberate, coming from the same damn area. The CCTV monitors remained empty. Once again he rejected the idea of pulling the alarm.

Getting back to his feet, he yanked out the flashlight and shifted it to his left hand, unsnapping the keeper on his sidearm with his right and sliding out the weapon. He walked back to the corner from which the sounds had come and paused, hoping to hear it again. Nothing. He advanced, this time deciding to go behind the stacks of pallets to see if there was something or someone hiding between them and the wall.

He slowly walked down a long aisle between pallets, pausing just before the last one, listening. Still nothing. Weird.

Moving tentatively now, he approached the final stack of pallets and ducked around the corner, shining his light along the wall.

He felt something not unlike a displacement of air behind him and spun around; a black shadow burst out of the darkness but before he could scream there was a flash of steel and he felt a violent tug across his neck, and then everything was tumbling and crazy and red—and then it was over.

22

Gideon Crew waited, listening. There was someone else inside the warehouse who was not the guard: he was sure of it. The guard had heard it, too, and gone to inspect; returned; then investigated again. The second time he had not returned and Gideon had heard a faint scuffling sound, following by the sound of something wet landing softly on the floor.

He waited, absolutely still and unmoving. From his vantage point inside the car, he could see through several breaks in the wreckage, giving him a view of the central, cleared aisle of the warehouse, very broad, that ran to the security area at the far end. The guard was still gone, and he was taking much too long to investigate.

Gideon heard a soft plop, and then something rolled out from between two stacks of pallets on the right side and came slowly to rest in the open area.

The guard’s severed head.

Gideon’s mind kicked into overdrive. He knew instantly it was a trap—a way to flush him out, frighten him, or induce him to investigate. Another person was loose in the warehouse—and now Gideon was the target.

Quickly he reviewed his options. He could stay and fight, stalk his stalker. But his opponent was holding all the cards; he evidently knew exactly where Gideon was, he had worked it all out, he had lured and killed the guard so efficiently that there hadn’t even been a sound…Gideon’s instincts told him this guy was very, very good, a true professional.

So what to do? Get the hell out. He already had the cell phone, and additional searching had turned up nothing else.

But that was obviously one of the things his opponent—or opponents—expected him to do. Opponents. Now that was a chilling thought.

He needed to do the unexpected. But what could be unexpected here? Gideon was well protected inside the twisted car, but any move he made to leave it would potentially expose him.

He was fucked.

As he mulled it over, he realized that the killer, or killers, had been tracking his progress all along. Now they were probably in position, aiming at his cage, just waiting for his appearance. They wouldn’t have rolled out the head if they didn’t know where he was.

There was a way out. It was a huge risk, but at least it had the advantage of leaving him alive. He had no other options.

He glanced at his watch. Then he eased the Colt Python out of his waistband and aimed it carefully at the lock on the door leading outside the warehouse. He squeezed off a shot, which sounded thunderously in the enclosed space, the round clipping the alarm keypad. The siren began to whoop again.

Now it was a question of outwaiting the killer. Because at some point the unknown assailant would have to bolt. And then Gideon would have to get his own ass out.

Who was it? The driver of the black SUV? It had to be—they’d have gotten a good look at him during the chase.

A shot rang out, ripping into the wrecked taxi with a clang, followed by another and another, heavy-caliber rounds that punched through the metal like butter. Gideon realized with dismay that the killer wasn’t going to run, at least not immediately. He had, for better or worse, forced the man’s hand.

At least he now knew where the shots were coming from. Flattening himself within the wreckage, keeping behind the engine block, he took aim and waited. Boom came the next shot; he saw the muzzle flash and quickly returned fire. Already he could hear the sirens. How long had it taken before the police arrived last time? About five minutes.

He glanced at his watch again. It had already been three.

Another pair of rounds banged through the metal, bracketing him, spraying him with paint chips, and he returned fire once again. The sirens were getting louder—and then he heard wheels screeching to a stop outside.

He saw a flash of black behind the pallets—the killer was finally fleeing. Backing quickly out of the ruined rear seat, he jumped up, ready to sprint to the door, when two more rounds suddenly whined past him. As he dove to the floor he realized the son of a bitch had feinted, pretending flight, in order to flush him out. He rolled, fired, and saw the black-clad figure vanish into a dark corner; he evidently had his own method of ingress and egress.

There was a sudden pounding on the forward door of the warehouse; it was still locked, the alarm blaring. To follow the killer out his own exit hole would be suicide; Gideon needed to find another way. He looked wildly around but the only possible escape route lay above, through some louvered vents in the ceiling. Quickly he sprinted across the warehouse to a metal support and began shimmying up it.

“Open up!” yelled the cops. There was more pounding, followed by the crash of a battering ram.

Higher he climbed, using bolts as rungs; he reached a metal collar beam and crawled across it to a gusset, reached up again, grabbed a truss web member, and worked his way up it until he was at the level of the louvered vents.

The battering ram smashed into the metal door again, and again, and Gideon offered a silent prayer of thanks for the fine workmanship.

“Roland! You in there? Open up!”

Crawling up the sloping angle-iron truss on his hands and knees, Gideon gripped the iron, crouched again, and launched himself across the narrow gap, grasping the open louver, his feet swinging free.

A moment later, as the metal door caved in with a great crash, he hoisted himself up, crawled out the louver onto the sloping roof, and lay flat, breathing hard. Would they think of looking up here? They certainly would: as soon as they discovered the decapitated guard, the police warehouse was going to look like Grand Central Terminal.

Sliding down the pitch of the roof, he reached the drip edge along the back and peered over. Good—all the activity was still concentrated at the front. He could hear shouting and expostulations of horror and fury as the police found the guard’s decapitated body.

What a balls-up.

Gideon grasped the drip edge, swung over, dropped to the ground, and headed to his previous opening. Then he reconsidered. The killer seemed to know an awful lot about his movements; he might be waiting there in ambush. Instead, Gideon sprinted to another part of the fence, climbed it, and as quickly as he could cut a crude gap through the concertina wire.

“Hey! You!”

Damn. He forced his way through the wire, feeling it slice his clothes and skin, and half climbed, half tumbled down the far side, landing in some bushes.

“Over here!” the cop yelled. “Suspect in flight! This way!”

Boom, the cop fired at him as he darted across the overgrown lot at the rear of the warehouse, dodging between abandoned containers, burned-out cars, and dumped refrigerators. He sprinted toward the railroad tracks running alongside the river; leaping over them and pushing through a sagging fence, he reached the embankment of riprap at the river’s edge. An onshore wind brought with it the sulfurous stench of the Harlem River. Hopping and skipping from rock to rock, he dove in.

He swam underwater as far as he could, surfaced to gulp air, swam some more, and then—with as little disturbance as possible—returned to the surface. Jettisoning the heavy weight of the bolt cutters, he let himself drift downstream, floating without treading water, keeping his head as low in the water as possible. He could hear shouts from the shore and an unintelligible screed over an electronic megaphone. A feeble spotlight swung out over the water, but he was already out of reach; nevertheless, he turned his head to show only his black hair. There was quite a lot of flotsam bobbing downstream along with him, and for once he was grateful for the slovenly habits of New Yorkers. He wondered if he’d need to get a battery of shots after this little immersion, then realized it didn’t matter—he was a dead man anyway.

He drifted along, letting the river take him downstream toward the fantastical arched and lighted form of the RFK Bridge. Slowly, the sluggish current moved him toward the Manhattan side of the river. Now he was thoroughly out of sight of the cops. Kicking his way over to the riverbank, he crawled up on a riprap boulder and began squeezing the water out of his clothes. He’d lost the Python somewhere in the river; good riddance to it. He would have had to toss it anyway, since shells and rounds had been left back in the warehouse; besides, it was too heavy a gun for his purposes.

He reached into his pocket and extracted the ziplock bag. It was still sealed, the cell phone inside safe and dry.

Balancing on the rocks, he made his way up the embankment, through yet another busted up chain-link fence, and found himself in a huge salt storage yard for the road department, mounds of white rising up around him like snowy mountains in some alien landscape painted by Nicholas Roerich.

The thought of Roerich triggered a rather interesting memory.

He would never get a cab this far uptown at four o’clock in the morning, especially in his sopping condition. He had a long walk back to the hotel, where he’d have to sneak his shit out and find another place to go to ground. And then it would be time to renew his old acquaintance with Tom O’Brien at Columbia.

He wondered what good old Tom would make of all this.

23

Gideon Crew walked east on 49th Street, still slightly damp from his misadventure of the previous night. It was eight o’clock in the morning and the sidewalks were in the full flow of the morning’s rush hour, commuters pouring out of the surrounding apartment buildings and heading for taxis or public transportation. Gideon was not normally given to paranoid thinking, but ever since he’d sneaked out of the hotel he’d had the uncanny feeling he was being followed. Nothing he could put his finger on—just a feeling. No doubt it had something to do with lingering worries from the previous evening’s shootout. The one thing he couldn’t do was allow whoever it was—if there was indeed someone—to follow him to Tom O’Brien’s place up at Columbia University. Tom O’Brien was to be his secret weapon in this and nobody—nobody—could know.

He slowed his pace until most of the pedestrians—swift-walking New Yorkers, all—were flowing past him. Then he casually paused to look at himself in a window while turning his attention behind. It was as he thought: an Asian man in a tracksuit, face half-hidden by a baseball cap, was a hundred yards back, also slowing down, apparently keeping pace.

Gideon swore under his breath. While it might still be in his imagination, he could take no chances. Even if it wasn’t that particular fellow, with all these crowds it could be anyone. He had to assume he was being followed and act accordingly.

He crossed Broadway and entered the subway station, going to the downtown platform. The station was packed, and it was impossible to know if the man in the tracksuit had followed him down. But it didn’t matter—there was one surefire way to lose the son of a bitch. Gideon had done it before. It was fun and dangerous and foolproof. He felt his heart quicken in anticipation.

He waited until he heard a faint rumble from the uptown tracks across the way. As he leaned out, he could see the headlights of a local coming up the tunnel, closing in fast on the platform.

Waiting for just the right moment, and making sure no other trains were coming, he leapt down onto the tracks. There was a gratifying chorus of screams, shouts, and loud admonishments from the waiting crowd. Ignoring them, he hopped over the third rail, crossed the uptown local tracks just ahead of the arriving train, and scrambled onto the platform. More screaming, shouts, hollering—people are so excitable, he thought. But the platform was unbelievably crowded, no one could move, and as the local pulled in he forced his way inside, mingling with the crush of commuters and instantly rendering himself anonymous.

As the train pulled out he saw, through the grimy window, across the rails, the Asian man in a tracksuit still standing on the downtown platform, staring in his direction.

Screw you, too, thought Gideon, settling in to read the Post over the shoulder of the person standing next to him.

24

Like the whining of a mosquito, the persistent sound of a buzzer intruded into the exceedingly pleasant dream of Tom O’Brien. He sat up with a groan and looked at his clock. Nine thirty in the morning. Who could possibly be disturbing him at this ungodly hour?

The buzzer sounded again, three short blasts. O’Brien muttered, throwing off the covers, pushing the cat to the floor, and picking his way through the strewn apartment to the door. He pushed the intercom button. “Go fuck yourself.”

“It’s me. Gideon. Let me up.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Just let me up, you can bitch later.”

O’Brien thumbed the door-lock button, unlatched his front door, and wandered back to his bed, sitting down and rubbing his face.

A minute later Gideon came in, carrying a bulky Pelican case. O’Brien stared at him. “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. When did you blow into town?”

Ignoring this, Gideon set down the case, went to the window, and, standing next to it, opened the curtain with a finger and peered out.

“Cops after you? You still boosting shit out of museums?”

“You know I gave that up a long time ago.”

“You look like yesterday’s feces.”

“You’re always so affirmative, that’s one of the things I like about you. Where’s the coffee?”

O’Brien pointed a finger toward the Pullman kitchen at the back of the studio apartment. Avoiding the moldy dishes in the sink, Gideon rattled around and soon emerged with a coffeepot and mugs.

“Man, you’re ripe,” said O’Brien, helping himself to a cup. “And your duds are revolting. What the hell you been doing?”

“I’ve been swimming in the Harlem River and being chased across subway tracks.”

“You’re kidding?”

“I’m not kidding.”

“Want to take a shower?”

“Love to. And also—got any clothes I can borrow?”

O’Brien went into his closet and sorted through a huge pile of suspiciously dirty clothing sitting on the floor, picking out a few items and tossing them toward Gideon.

Ten minutes later, he was cleaned up and dressed in reasonably fresh clothes. They felt a little loose on him—O’Brien hadn’t stayed quite as skinny as Gideon—and they were covered with satanic designs and logos of the death metal band Cannibal Corpse.

“You look marvelous,” O’Brien said. “But you’ve got the pants pulled up too high.” He reached over and tugged them so they were hanging halfway down Gideon’s ass. “That’s how it’s supposed to look.”

“Your taste in music and clothing is atrocious.” Gideon hiked them back up. “Look, I need your help. I’ve got a few problems for you to solve.”

O’Brien shrugged, sipped his coffee.

Gideon unlocked the Pelican case and removed a piece of paper. “I’m working on an assignment, undercover. I can’t tell you much about it—except that I’m looking for a set of plans.”

“Plans? What sort of plans?”

“To a weapon.”

“Cloak and dagger, man. What kind of weapon?”

“I don’t know. And that’s really all I can safely tell you.” He handed him the piece of paper. “There is a bunch of numbers here. I have no idea what they mean. I want you to tell me.”

“Is it some kind of code?”

“All I know is it has something to do with weapon plans.”

O’Brien eyeballed the sheet. “I can tell you right off that there’s a theoretical upper limit to the amount of information that could be contained in these numbers, and it isn’t even enough to detail the plans for a pop-gun.”

“The numbers could be something else, a passcode, bank account or safe-deposit, directions to a hiding place, the encoded name and address of a contact…or, for all I know, a recipe for chop suey.”

O’Brien grunted. Over the years, he had gotten used to his friend’s vanishings and reappearances, his black moods, his secretive doings and quasi-criminal habits. But this really took the cake. He stared at the numbers, then a smile cracked his face. “These numbers are anything but random,” he said.

“How do you know?”

O’Brien grunted. “Just looking at ’em. I doubt this is a code at all.”

“What is it, then?”

O’Brien shrugged, laid the paper down. “What other goodies you got in that case?”

Gideon reached in and pulled out a passport and credit card. O’Brien took them; both were Chinese. He stared. “Is all this…legal?”

“It’s necessary—for our country.”

“Since when did you become a patriot?”

“What’s wrong with patriotism—especially when it pays?”

“Patriotism, my dear chap, is the last refuge of a scoundrel.”

“Spare me your left-wing twaddle. I don’t see you packing your bags and moving to Russia.”

“All right, all right, stop hyperventilating. So what do you want me to do with the passport and credit card?”

“Both have magnetic stripes containing data. I want you to download that data and parse it, see if anything unusual is hidden in it.”

“Piece of cake. Next?”

Gideon reached back into the case and removed, with enormous gravitas, a ziplock bag containing a cell phone. He laid it in O’Brien’s palm. “This is really important. This phone belonged to a Chinese physicist. I need you to extract all the information this phone contains. I’ve already gotten its list of recent calls and contacts, but that’s suspiciously short—there might be more that have been hidden or deleted. If he’s used it for web browsing, I want the entire history. If there are photos I want those, too. And finally—and most important—I think there’s a very good chance the plans for the weapon are hidden in that phone.”

“Lucky for you I read and write Mandarin.”

“Why do you think I’m here?” said Gideon. “It isn’t because I miss your ugly mug. You are a gentleman of singular and diverse endowments.”

“And not just in the intellectual department.” O’Brien laid the cell phone on a table. “Any money in it for me?”

Gideon extracted from his pocket a massive, sodden roll of banknotes.

“That’s a charming Kansas City roll you got there.”

Gideon peeled off ten limp bills. “A thousand dollars. I’ll give you another thousand when you’re done. And I need it, like, done yesterday.”

O’Brien collected the wet money and lovingly spread it out on his windowsill to dry. “This is a challenge. I like challenges.”

Gideon seemed to hesitate. “One other thing.” His voice was suddenly different.

O’Brien looked over. Gideon was removing a manila envelope. “I’ve got some X-rays and CT scans here. Friend of mine. The guy doesn’t feel right, wants a doctor to look these over.”

O’Brien frowned. “Why doesn’t he ask his own doctor? I don’t know shit about medicine. Or take it to your doctor, for Chrissakes.”

“I’m busy. Look, he just wants a second opinion. Surely you know some good doctors around here.”

“Well, sure, we got a few at the medical school.” He opened the file, picked up an X-ray. “Name’s been cut out.”

“The guy values his privacy.”

“Is there anything you do that isn’t shady? Doctors are expensive.”

Gideon laid two more C notes on the table. “Just take care of it, okay?”

“Right, fine, no need to get snippy.” He was taken aback by Gideon’s sudden short tone of voice. “It’s gonna take time. These guys are busy.”

“Be careful and for God’s sake keep your big mouth shut. No kidding. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Please,” groaned O’Brien, “not before noon.”

25

The hourly rate hotel room was about as sordid as they came, like something out of a 1950s noir film: the blinking neon light outside the window, elephant stains on the walls, pressed-tin ceiling coated with fifty layers of paint, sagging bed, and smell of frying hamburger in the passageway outside. Gideon Crew dumped his shopping bags on the bed and began unloading them.

“How are we gonna do it if the bed’s covered with stuff?” asked the prostitute, standing in the door, pouting.

“Sorry,” said Gideon, “we’re not doing it.”

“Oh yeah? Are you one of those guys who just wants to talk?”

“Not really.” He laid out everything on the bed and stared at it, looking for inspiration, his eye roving over the fake paunches, the cheek inserts, the noses and wigs and beards, latex, prostheses, tattoos, pads. Next to this assortment, he spread out some of the clothing he had bought. While he had shaken off his pursuer, it hadn’t been easy and the man was a serious professional. He had two places to visit, and it was likely the man, or possibly a compatriot, would be lurking at one or both of them. It would take more than a disguise to pull this off; it would take creating a new role, and for that the woman was essential. Gideon straightened up and looked at the prostitute. She was nice looking, not drugged out, with a bright-eyed, wiseass attitude. Dyed black hair, pale skin, dark lipstick, slender figure, small sharp nose—he liked the Goth look of her. He sorted through the clothes, picked out a black T-shirt, and laid it aside. Camo pants and black leather boots with thick soles completed the wardrobe.

“Mind if I smoke?” she asked, tapping a cigarette out of a pack and lighting it up. She took a deep drag. Gideon strolled over and slipped the cigarette out of her hand, took a drag himself, handed it back.

“So what’s all this?” she said, gesturing at the bed with her cigarette.

“I’m going to rob a bank.”

“Right.” She blew out a stream of smoke.

Gideon resisted the urge to bum a cigarette from her. Instead, he took another drag from hers.

“Hey,” she said, looking at his right hand. “What happened to your finger?”

“Too much nail biting.”

“Cute. So what you need me for?”

“You were a good way for me to get this, ah, inexpensive hotel room without attracting attention or having to show ID. I need a place to plan the heist.”

“You’re not really going to rob a bank,” she said, but there was a note of concern in her voice.

He laughed. “Not really. I’m actually in the film business. Actor and producer. Creighton McFallon’s the name. Perhaps you’ve heard it.”

“Sounds familiar. You got any work for me?”

“Why do you think you’re here? You’re going to play my girlfriend for a while. To help me immerse myself in a role. It’s called Method acting—know about that?”

“Hey, I’m an actress, too. Name’s Marilyn.”

“Marilyn what?”

“Marilyn’s enough. I was an extra in an episode of Mad Men.”

“I knew it! I’m going to change my looks, but you can be just who you are. In fact, you’re perfect.”

The woman gave him a quick smile and he saw, briefly, the real person underneath.

“You know, I gotta get paid for something like this.”

“Naturally. What would your rate be for, say, six hours?”

“Doing what?”

“Walking around town with me.”

“Well, I’d normally make at least a grand for six hours of work, but seeing as how this is the film business, make it two. And I’ll throw in a little special something, just for you…’cause you’re cute.” She smiled and touched her lower lip with a finger.

He took a small bundle of bills out of his pocket and handed them to her. “There’s five hundred. You’ll get the rest at the end.”

She took it a little doubtfully. “I should get half up front.”

“All right.” He gave her another bundle. “You’re going to need a new name. Shall we call you Orchid?”

“Okay.”

“Good. For the next six hours, we’re going to be in character at all times. That’s how Method acting works. But right now I have a few things I have to do, preparation and so forth, so you go ahead and relax.”

Gideon sorted through the supplies as he visualized the sort of person he wanted to be. Then he began to create it. When he was done with the makeup, a false nose, cheek inserts, receding hairline, paunch—with the aging-pseudo-rocker clothing to go with it—he turned to Orchid, who had been watching the process with interest, smoking nonstop.

“Wow. That’s sad. I liked how you looked before a lot better.”

“That’s acting,” said Gideon. “Now give me a few minutes here, Orchid, and then we’ll step out and get into the role.”

He took out the list of contacts he had copied from Wu’s phone, unfolded his laptop, and booted it up. Thank God for free Wi-Fi, he thought, now available even in hourly hotels. He connected to the internet and did a quick bit of research. There was only one phone on the contact list in the United States, and it was labeled “Fa.” A quick bit of research indicated that Fa was a Chinese character meaning “to commence.” It was also a mah-jongg tile called “the Green Dragon.” A reverse phone number search indicated the “Fa” phone number belonged to a certain Roger Marion on Mott Street in Chinatown.

Roger. The name the Chinese the scientist had called him.

He began packing away his stuff. With his disguise and Orchid on his arm, he felt pretty sure that nobody, not even his mother, would guess who he was. Whoever was after him was on the lookout for him alone: they wouldn’t be interested in an aging rocker with a bimbo in tow.

“What now?”

“We’re going to see an old pal in Chinatown, and then we’re going to visit a sick friend in the hospital.”

“Got time for that little extra I mentioned? You know, to help you get into the role?” Her eyes twinkled as she stubbed out her cigarette.

No, no, no, thought Gideon, but as he looked at her upturned nose, jet-black hair, and fresh, creamy skin, he heard himself say, “Sure, what the hell. I think we can manage it, time-wise.”

26

The address, 426 Mott, was in the heart of Chinatown, between Grand and Hester. Gideon Crew stood on the opposite sidewalk, giving it a once-over. The Hong Li Meat Market occupied the ground floor, and the upper stories were a typical Chinatown brown-brick tenement, festooned with fire escapes.

“What now?” asked Orchid, lighting up yet another cigarette.

Gideon plucked the cigarette out of her fingers and took a drag.

“Why don’t you get your own?”

“I don’t smoke.”

She laughed. “Maybe we can get some dim sum around here. I love dim sum.”

“I’ve got to see a fellow first. You mind waiting here?”

“What, on the street?”

He suppressed an ironic comment. He slipped out a banknote. God, he thought, it was nice having money. “Why don’t you wait for me in that tea shop? I doubt this is going to take more than five minutes.”

“All right.” She took the bill and sauntered off, derriere twitching, turning heads.

Gideon went back to contemplating the problem at hand. He didn’t have enough information about Roger Marion to come up with a believable line. But even a brief encounter might prove useful. And the sooner, the better.

He looked carefully both ways, then crossed Mott and went to the metal door at street level. There was a row of buzzers, all labeled with Chinese characters. No English at all.

Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, he stepped back and stopped a Chinese man. “Excuse me?”

The man stopped. “Yes?”

“I don’t read Chinese, and I’m trying to figure out which one of these apartments belongs to my friend.”

“What is your friend’s name?”

“Roger Marion. But he goes by the nickname Fa—you know, the mah-jongg character they call the Green Dragon?”

The man smiled, pointed to a character beside the label 4C. “That is Fa.”

“Thank you.” The man walked on and Gideon stared at the character, memorizing it. Then he pressed the button.

“Yes?” came the voice almost immediately, in unaccented English.

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial hiss. “Roger? I’m a friend of Mark’s. Let me in right away.”

“Who? What’s your name?”

“No time to explain. I’m being followed. Let me in, please!”

The buzzer sounded and he pushed in, climbing a dingy set of stairs to the fourth floor. He knocked on the apartment door.

“Who is it?”

He could see the man’s eye in the peephole. “Like I said, I’m a friend of Mark Wu’s. The name’s Franklin Van Dorn.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve got the numbers.”

The bolt shot open and the door opened to reveal a small, intense Caucasian man in his mid-forties: shaved head, very fit and alert, thin and whippet-muscular, wearing a tight T-shirt and baggy pajama-type pants.

Gideon ducked in. “Roger Marion?”

A sharp nod. “Mark gave you the numbers? Give them to me.”

“I can’t do that until you tell me what this is all about.”

The features immediately creased with suspicion. “You don’t need to know. If you were really a friend of Mark’s, you wouldn’t ask.”

“I must know.”

Marion looked at him intently. “Why?”

Gideon stood his ground, saying nothing. Meanwhile, he took in the small, crowded, but neat apartment. There were Chinese block prints on the walls, scrolls covered with ideograms, and a curious, colorful tapestry showing a reverse swastika surrounded by yin–yang symbols and spinning designs. There were also various placards and awards that—when he looked more closely—turned out to be for kung fu competitions.

Gideon returned his attention to Marion. The man was looking back at him as if making up his mind. He did not appear in the least bit nervous. There was something about his manner that told Gideon he was not one to push his weight around, but that—if the need arose—he could be violent.

Quite abruptly, the man spoke. “Out,” he said. “Get out now.” He moved toward Gideon menacingly.

“But I have the numbers—”

“I don’t trust you. You’re a liar. Get out now.”

Gideon placed a light hand on the man’s advancing shoulder. “How do you know—”

With frightening speed, the man grabbed the hand and twisted it sharply, spinning him around. “Shit!” Gideon cried out, pain lancing through his shoulder and down his arm.

“Out.” He ejected Gideon out the door and slammed it, the bolts shooting back.

Standing in the hall, Gideon rubbed his hurt shoulder thoughtfully. He wasn’t used to being smoked out, and it was not a pleasant feeling. He’d assumed making up a story would be worse than nothing—but maybe he’d assumed incorrectly. He hoped he wasn’t losing his touch.

He found Orchid in the tea shop, chowing down a plate heaped with pressed duck and white rice. “They didn’t have dim sum but this is pretty good,” she said, grease dripping down her chin.

“We’ve got to go.”

Overriding her protests, he hustled her out and they walked over to Grand, where they grabbed a cab.

“Mount Sinai Hospital,” he told the driver.

“To see your friend?” Orchid asked.

Gideon nodded.

“Is he sick?”

“Very.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Car accident.”

At the reception desk, Gideon gave his real name, making sure nobody but the duty nurse heard him speak. Even though he looked very different from the Gideon Crew who had come in after the accident, he was confident he wouldn’t run into anyone who had seen him before in the huge city hospital. When he’d called earlier in the day, he’d also learned Wu had been transferred from the ER to the intensive care unit. Even better, he’d been told Wu was coming out of the coma. He wasn’t yet lucid, but they felt he might be soon.

Soon would be now.

Gideon had come prepared with a beautifully wrought plan of social engineering. He’d talk to Wu, posing as Roger Marion, and get everything out of the scientist—the location of the plans, the meaning of the numbers, everything. He had gone over his plan in detail and felt at least ninety percent certain it would work. He very much doubted Wu had ever met or seen “Roger,” only talked to him on the phone, and Gideon, after his visit, at least had an idea of how the man talked and sounded. Wu would be disoriented, off his guard. The man would have been too devastated at the accident scene to have taken note of his features. He could pull this off. Despite being shot at, despite his dunking in the river, it would be by far the easiest hundred thousand he’d ever earned.

The busy duty nurse didn’t even bother to check his ID against his face, just directed them both to a large and comfortable waiting area. Gideon glanced around but saw no one he recognized. Yet he was certain the one who had chased him would not be far behind.

“The doctor will be down to see you in a moment,” the nurse told him.

“We can’t just go visit Mark?”

“No.”

“But they said he was much better.”

“You’ll have to wait for the doctor,” said the nurse firmly.

The doctor arrived a few minutes later, a portly man with woolly white hair and a sad, friendly look on his face. “Mr. Crew?”

Gideon leapt up. “Yes, Doctor, that’s me. How is he?”

“And the lady is—?”

“A friend. She’s here to support me.”

“Very well,” he said. “Please come with me.”

They followed the doctor into another, smaller waiting room, more like an office, empty of people. The doctor closed the door behind them.

“Mr. Crew, I’m very, very sorry to tell you that Mr. Wu passed away about half an hour ago.”

Gideon stood thunderstruck.

“I’m very, very sorry.”

“You didn’t call me—to be there at the end.”

“We tried to reach you at the number you gave us.”

Damn, thought Gideon; his cell phone had not survived the swim.

“Mr. Wu gave signs of stabilizing, and we had hopes for a while. But he was severely injured, and sepsis set in. This is not uncommon with severe injuries. We took every possible measure and did the best we could, but it wasn’t nearly enough.”

Gideon swallowed. He felt Orchid’s comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I have here some paperwork, unfortunately necessary, which you as next of kin will need to fill out regarding the disposition of the remains and some other details.” He proffered a manila packet to Gideon. “You don’t need to do this right away, but we would like to know as soon as possible. In three days, Mr. Wu’s remains will be moved to the city morgue to await your instructions. Would you like me to arrange for you to see the body?”

“Um, no, no, that won’t be necessary.” Gideon took the folder. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you for all your help.”

The doctor nodded.

“By any chance…did Mark say anything before he passed? When I talked to the nurse this morning, she said she thought he was becoming lucid. If he said anything, anything at all, even if it seemed nonsensical, I’d like to know.”

“He showed signs of regaining lucidity, but it never actually rose to the level of consciousness. He said nothing. And then the sepsis set in.” He looked at Gideon. “I’m terribly sorry. For what it’s worth, he didn’t suffer at all.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

The doctor nodded and left.

Gideon threw himself into a chair. Orchid sat down next to him, her face creased with concern. He reached into his pocket, removed a sheaf of bills, and handed them to her. “This is for you. When we leave the hospital, we’ll get in a cab together, but after a while I’ll get out of the cab while you continue on to wherever you want to go.”

She didn’t take the money.

“Thanks for your help,” he said. “I really appreciated it.”

“Creighton, or Crew, or whatever your name is, I can guess this isn’t really about some Method acting gig. You’re a nice guy, and it’s been a long time since I met any nice guys. Whatever you’re doing, I want to help.” She pressed his hand.

Gideon cleared his throat. “Thanks, but I’ve got to do this alone.” He knew how lame that sounded even as he said it.

“But…will I see you again? I don’t care about the money.”

Gideon glanced at her and was shocked at the look he saw on her face.

He thought about lying, but decided the truth was ultimately less painful. “No. I’m not going to call you. Look, the money’s yours. You earned it.” He gave the bills an impatient shake.

“I don’t want it,” she said. “I want you to call me.”

“Look,” said Gideon as coldly as he could. “This was a business arrangement, and you did your job well. Just take the money and go.”

She reached out, snatched the money. “You’re an asshole.” She turned to leave and he tried not to notice she was crying.

“Good-bye,” he said, cringing inwardly.

“Good-bye, jerk-off.”

27

Gideon Crew strolled up Fifth Avenue and entered Central Park at the 102nd Street gate. He felt absolutely awful. It was early evening, and the joggers were out in force. He couldn’t get Orchid’s lovesick look out of his head. And now that Wu was dead—and his assignment had crashed and burned—he found himself replaying Glinn again and again in his mind, pulling out the medical file with a sorrowful look on his face. Arteriovenous malformation. The more he thought about it, the less probable it seemed: this mysterious illness that would just happen to strike him dead in a year with no warning, no treatment, no symptoms, nothing. It smelled phony, smacking of psychological manipulation. Glinn seemed the type to tell any kind of fantastic story if it got him what he wanted. Gideon walked aimlessly, not knowing where he was going, cutting across the baseball diamonds, heading west.

This is crazy, he thought, just forget about Orchid and the file and move on. Focus on the problem. But he couldn’t forget. He pulled out a new cell phone he’d bought—a cheapie with preloaded minutes—and called Tom O’Brien as he walked.

“Yo” came the abrasive voice after an inordinate number of rings.

“Gideon here. What news?”

“Jeez, you told me I’d have twenty-four hours.”

“Well?”

“Well, the credit card and passport are just that. No hidden data. The cell phone’s the same. It’s a brand-new SIM card phone, probably just purchased.”

“Damn.”

“All that’s left on it are the contacts you already got, a few recent calls—and that’s it. No other hidden data, no secret microchips, nothing.”

“What about the string of numbers I gave you?”

“Those are a lot more interesting. I’m still working on them.”

Gideon turned south. It was now dusk, and the park was emptying.

“Interesting why?”

“Like I told you before, lot of patterns in here.”

“Such as?”

“Repeated numbers, rows of decreasing numbers, stuff like that. Right now it’s hard to say what they mean. I just started in on them. It’s definitely not code.”

Central Park Reservoir loomed ahead, and he stepped onto the jogging path. The water lay dark and still. Far to the south, over the tops of the trees, Gideon could see the skyline of Midtown, the lights in the buildings glowing against the fading sky.

“How do you know?”

“Any decent code yields a string of numbers that look random. They aren’t, of course, but all the mathematical tests for randomness will show that they are. In this case, even the simplest test shows they’re not random.”

“Test? Such as?”

“Tallying up the digits. A truly random string has roughly ten percent zeros, ten percent ones, et cetera. This one is way heavy on the zeros and ones.”

There was a silence. Gideon took a deep breath and tried to speak casually. “And the CT scans I gave you?”

“Oh yeah. I passed them along to a doctor like you asked.”

“And?”

“I was supposed to call him this afternoon. I forgot.”

“Right,” said Gideon.

“I’ll call him first thing in the morning.”

“You do that,” said Gideon. “Thanks.” He wiped his brow. He felt like shit.

And then all of a sudden—for the second time that day—he had the distinct impression he was being followed. He looked around. It was almost dark, and he was in the middle of the park.

“Hello? Anyone home?” asked O’Brien.

Gideon realized he hadn’t hung up. “Yeah. Listen, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow.”

“Not before noon.”

He closed the phone and stuck it in his pocket. Maintaining a brisk stride, he headed west past the tennis courts, still keeping to the jogging path. What made him feel he was being followed this time? He hadn’t heard or seen anything…or had he? Long ago, he’d learned to trust his instincts—and they’d saved his ass again just that morning.

He realized that, by following the jogging path, he was making it easy for his follower—if there was one. Better turn back to the north, get off the paths, and cut through the wooded area around the courts. The pursuer would have to stay closer. And then Gideon could figure out a way to double around and come up behind.

He cut off the path and entered the woods below the courts. There were dead leaves underfoot that rustled as he walked. He continued for a moment, then stopped abruptly, pretending to have dropped something—and heard the crunch of leaves behind him cease abruptly as well.

Now he knew he was being followed, and his stupidity began to dawn on him. He didn’t have a weapon, he was in the middle of the empty park—how had he allowed this to happen? He’d been upset about Orchid, who’d turned out to have feelings as tender as a damn teenager’s. He’d been worrying about Glinn and his medical folder. And as a result he’d let down his guard.

He started up again, walking fast. He couldn’t let them know that he knew. But he had to get out of the park as soon as possible, get among people. He swung around the tennis courts and took a sharp left, walked along the court fence and then, in a bushy area, briefly reversed direction and made a quick ninety-degree dogleg, angling back toward the reservoir.

That would, he hoped, confuse the bastard.

“Move and you’re dead,” spoke a voice from the darkness, and a figure with a gun stepped out in front of him.

28

Gideon halted, tensed to spring, but held his ground. It had been a woman’s voice.

“Don’t be stupid. Raise your hands. Slowly.”

Gideon raised his hands, and the figure took another step forward. She had a Glock trained on him with both hands, and he could see from her stance that she was thoroughly trained in its use. Slender, athletic, her mahogany hair was pulled back in a heavy, loose ponytail, and she wore a dark leather jacket over a crisp white blouse and blue slacks.

“Put your hands against that tree and lean out, legs apart.”

Jesus, thought Gideon. He did as he was told and the woman hooked one foot inside his and patted him down. She stepped back.

“Turn around, keeping your hands raised.”

He complied.

“Name is Mindy Jackson, Central Intelligence Agency. I’d show you my ID but my hands are full at the moment.”

“Right,” said Gideon. “Now, look, Ms. Jackson—”

“Shut up. I’ll do the talking. Now, I’d like you to tell me who you’re working for and what the hell you think you’re doing.”

Gideon tried to relax. “Couldn’t we discuss this—”

“You don’t follow directions well, do you? Talk.”

“Or what? You’re going to shoot me here in Central Park?”

“Lots of people get shot in Central Park.”

“You fire that gun and in five minutes this place will be swarming with cops. Just think of the paperwork.”

“Answer my questions.”

“Maybe.”

There was a tense silence. “Maybe?” she said, finally.

“You want me to talk? Fine. Not at gunpoint and not here. All right? If you’re really CIA, we’re on the same side.”

He could see her thinking. She relaxed, holstered the gun under her thin jacket. “That would work.”

“Ginza’s over on Amsterdam has a nice bar, if it’s still around.”

“It’s still around.”

“So you’re a New Yorker?”

“Let’s dispense with the chitchat, shall we?”

29

Sitting at the bar, Gideon ordered sake, Mindy Jackson a Sapporo. They said nothing while waiting for the drinks to arrive. In the light, with the coat off, he was able to see her better: full lips, a small nose, just a hint of freckles, thick brown hair, green eyes. Thirty, maybe thirty-two. Smart. But maybe too nice for her line of work—although, he reminded himself, you never could tell. The important thing was, even though he had no idea what it might be, she had information he needed—he was sure of that. And to get it, he’d have to give.

The drinks arrived and Jackson took a sip, then turned to him, a hostile look on her face. “All right. Now who are you and why are you interested in Wu?”

“Just as I’m sure you can’t tell me all the details of your assignment, I can’t tell you mine.” The walk over had given Gideon time to work up a story; but he had always felt that the best lie was the one closest to the truth. “I don’t even have a badge, as you do. Oh, by the way, as a professional courtesy I’d like to see yours.”

“We don’t have badges. We have IDs.” She brought hers out and quickly flashed it at him under the bar. “So. Who do you work for?”

“I know this is going to frustrate you, Mindy, but I work for a private contractor with the DHS. They wanted me to get the plans for the weapon from Wu.”

She stared at him and he could see she was pissed. “DHS? What the hell are they doing meddling in our affairs? With a private contractor?”

He shrugged.

“What do you know?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. Wu spoke to you right after the accident. He said something to you. I want to know what it was.”

“He told me to tell his wife he loved her.”

“That’s not even a decent lie. He doesn’t have a wife. He gave you some numbers. I want to know what those numbers are.”

Gideon gazed into her face. “Um, what makes you think that he gave me numbers?”

“Witnesses. Said they saw you writing down numbers. Look,” she said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “You said it yourself. We’re on the same side. We should be working together, pooling our resources.”

“I haven’t noticed you pooling with me.”

“You give me the numbers and I’ll pool with you.”

“That sounds exciting.”

“Don’t be an ass. Give me the numbers.”

“What do the numbers signify?”

She hesitated, and he sensed that maybe she didn’t know. But numbers were always stimulating to a CIA agent.

“I’ve got a question for you,” he continued, pushing just a little harder. “What is CIA doing working domestically? Isn’t that FBI turf?”

“Wu was coming from overseas. You know that as well as I do.”

“That’s not answering my question.”

“I can’t answer your question,” she said, looking increasingly irritated. “It’s not my place to do so, and it sure as hell isn’t any of your business.”

“If you want to know anything more, you’re going to have to answer it. You can’t force me to talk. I haven’t broken any laws. Talking to an injured man, inquiring about his condition, isn’t illegal.” He wondered where Mindy had been during the firefight at the police vehicle yard. Cutting somebody’s head off, perhaps?

“If it’s in the interests of national security, I can damn well make you talk.”

“What, are you going to waterboard me right here at the bar?”

He saw her smile despite herself. She sighed. “This was too sensitive to hand off to the FBI. Wu was our honey pot. We set it up.”

“You set up the honey trap?”

She hesitated. “Wu went to a scientific conference in Hong Kong, and we learned he had the plans with him. We set it up.”

“Tell me about it.”

She hesitated again, seemed to come to a private decision. “Okay. But if you’d like a behind-the-scenes tour of Guantánamo, just try telling somebody—anybody—what I’m telling you now. We hired a local call girl to have a chance encounter with Wu in the bar at the conference hotel. She brought him up to her room and satisfied his every fantasy—and we got the goods on him, video and audio and stills.”

“And that actually worked? You said the guy wasn’t married. What’s he afraid of?”

“It works in China. The Chinese are prudish. It wasn’t the sex, it was the perversion that, ah, would have destroyed his career.”

He laughed. “Perversion? What was it?”

“Dominatrix. Athletic, over six feet, and blond. We had reason to believe he liked that stuff but we had a hell of a time finding one. She whipped his ass good and we got it all on video.”

“Ouch. So then what happened to your blackmail scheme?”

“We approached him with the goods. Said we’d trade the pictures for the plans. But he freaked out. Said he needed half an hour to think about it. Instead he took off, got on the first plane here.”

“You miscalculated.”

She frowned.

“Why here?” he asked.

“We don’t know.”

“Was he defecting?”

“We have no idea what his intentions were. All we know is, he had the plans when he got on the plane.”

“Hidden where?”

“No idea.”

“And the car that ran him off the road? Who was that?”

“The Chinese are after him hammer and tongs. They sent an operative over to deal with Wu, immediately and with extreme prejudice. We believe he’s a man known as Nodding Crane.”

“Nodding Crane?”

“After a certain kung fu stance. We don’t know his real name. He was sent to kill Wu and retrieve the plans. He did the first, but since he’s still here, we figure the Chinese haven’t gotten the plans. They’re still floating around out there somewhere.” She looked at him pointedly. “Unless you’ve got them.”

“No,” he said. “You know I don’t. Why would I still be running around like this?”

She nodded. “Now: the numbers, please?”

He racked his brains, thinking how he could appear to be reciprocating without actually giving her anything. Could he tell her about the cell phone? But then he’d have to explain where he got it…bad idea. Giving her fake numbers would be an even worse idea. But, he sensed, so would be giving her the real numbers. She’d have no more need of him. And he believed Mindy Jackson could prove an invaluable asset.

“The honest-to-God truth is,” he said, “I don’t have the numbers with me.”

The hostile expression returned immediately, this time with more than a hint of dubiousness. “Where are they?”

“I passed them on to my handlers. They’re being analyzed.”

“You didn’t keep a copy?”

“For security reasons, no. That fellow—what’s his name, Nodding Crane—seems to be after me.”

“That is really unfortunate for you. You didn’t memorize them?”

“It was a long string of numbers. Besides, I figured some things are better not known.”

She stared at him. “I don’t believe you.”

He shrugged. “Look, when I next meet up with my handlers, I’ll find a way to get you the numbers. And then I’ll share them with you. Deal?” He gave her a big smile.

Her hostile expression softened just a little. “Why did you visit the hospital?”

“I was hoping Wu might have said something before he died.”

“I guess you found out he didn’t.”

He nodded.

“Who was that Goth woman you were with?”

“A hooker I hired to help me go undercover, to sidetrack that assassin.”

“It was a good disguise. That theatrical stuff you’re wearing fooled me for a while. You are one ugly mother.”

“Thank you.”

“And now what are you doing?”

“Just what you’re doing. Trying to figure out what Wu did with the plans. Retracing his steps, looking for contacts, people he might have encountered on the way. So far, nothing.” He spread his hands. “Look, Mindy, I appreciate you sharing with me, I really do.” He tried to sound sincere. “Let’s keep sharing. I promise I’ll get you those numbers as soon as possible, and anything else I find I’ll let you know. Fair enough?” He gave her another big honest grin.

She stared at him suspiciously. Then she scribbled a number on a napkin. “Here’s my cell. Call me anytime, day or night. I hope for your sake you’re not bullshitting me.” She rose to go, dropping the napkin and a twenty on the bar.

“Thanks for pooling with me,” Gideon said, with a smirk.

“You wish.”

30

Tom O’Brien ate the last of the Chicken McNuggets—cold and stiff—chewing noisily as he perused the latest printout. He washed it down with a swig of kombucha. His tiny office was brilliantly lit by incandescent light—fluorescence left him depressed—and it was packed with papers, books, journals, coffee mugs, plates, and food trash. The lone barred window looked into an airshaft during the day, but at night it turned into a disconcerting mirror of the activity within. Someday, O’Brien thought, he would have to get blinds.

He paused, hearing a squeak, which he instantly recognized as the sticky knob of his office door. He froze as he saw the handle slowly turn. Whipping out his pocketknife, he moved behind the door, heart pounding.

The handle stopped turning, the door began to open. He stood, knife raised, poised to strike.

“Tom?” came the whispered voice.

“Jesus.” O’Brien dropped his arm as Gideon Crew entered. But when he saw the person, it wasn’t Crew at all. He yelled, jumped back, brandishing the knife. “Who the hell—?”

“Hey. It’s me.”

“Christ, you look awful. What the hell do you mean sneaking up on me like this? And how did you get in? The building’s locked up for the night. Oh, wait, don’t tell me—old skills die hard, right?”

Gideon stepped inside, shut and locked the door behind him, swept some books off a chair, and collapsed. “Sorry about the subterfuge. It’s for your own protection, actually.”

O’Brien grunted. “You could have called ahead.”

“I’m concerned the CIA might be involved,” said Gideon. “Might be wiretapping my phone.”

“I thought you were working for the government.”

“In my Father’s house are many mansions.”

O’Brien folded up the knife and stuck it in his pocket. “You scared the crap out of me.” He looked Gideon up and down. “Man, looks like you’ve been scarfing down corn dogs and shakes twenty-four seven.”

“Amazing what they can do with prosthetics. How’s the work going?”

“So-so.” O’Brien went over to his table, piled with paper, sorted through a stack, and pulled out some sheets. “Take a look at this.”

Gideon took the papers.

“Those numbers, they’re nothing more than a list.” He dropped another piece of paper in front of Gideon. “Here are the numbers, just as you gave them to me. Except I broke them up into three-digit groups. And when I did that, a remarkable pattern emerged. Take a look.”

871 050 033 022 014 010

478 364 156 002

211 205 197 150 135 101 001

750 250

336 299 242 114 009

917 052 009 008 007 004 003

500 278 100 065 057

616 384

370 325 300 005

844 092 060 001 001 001 001

“Whaddya think?” said O’Brien, grinning at Gideon with amusement. The man didn’t see the pattern. Some people were just thick when it came to numbers.

“Ah, yeah?” Gideon said.

“Look. Ten groups of three-digit numbers. Look at ’em. The pattern should be obvious to any idiot.”

“Each group of numbers is in descending order?”

“Yes, but that’s not the big thing. Look at each group—add ’em up.”

A long silence. “Oh my God.”

“Right. Each group adds up to a thousand.”

“Which means…?”

“I’d guess they’re lists of percentages, each one adding up to a thousand—or one hundred percent with one significant digit to the right of the decimal point. This is a formula of some kind: ten formulations set out with the ratios of their various components adding up to one hundred percent.”

“One hundred percent of what?”

“It might be some kind of high-explosives formulation, an exotic metallurgy formula, a chemical or isotope formulation. I’m not a chemist or a condensed matter physicist—I’d need to bring in an expert.”

“You have someone in mind?”

“Sadie Epstein. She’s a professor in the Physics Department, an expert in metastable quasicrystal analysis.”

“Is she discreet?”

“Very. But I’m not going to tell her much.”

“Give it to her with a false cover story. Dream something up. Say it’s a contest of some kind. You could win a trip to Oxford for the Isaac Newton Maths Conference in September.”

“Can’t you not lie? You make up a story even when there’s no need.”

“I take no pleasure in lying.”

“You’re the Holy Roman Emperor of liars. And since when are you so flush? Usually it’s the poor mouth with you. Where are you staying?”

“I’ve been moving around town—spent last night at a twenty-dollar-an-hour motel in Canarsie. Tonight I’ll crash at the Waldorf. Got a morning flight to Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong? How long are you going to be away?”

“No more than a day. I’ll drop in when I return, see what you’ve found. Don’t call me. And for God’s sake, make sure this Sadie Epstein keeps her trap shut.”

31

Norio Tatsuda had been a flight attendant on Japan Airline’s Tokyo–New York run for almost six years, and when he first saw the man sitting in the wrong seat, he instantly recognized the type: one of those inexperienced and combative travelers who were sure they were going to get disrespected and taken advantage of at every turn. The man was wearing an expensive suit and a silly, floppy American hat, and he clutched a plastic carry-on as if it might be snatched away at any moment by one of the many obvious thugs and criminals roaming about the cabin.

With a warm, fake smile, Tatsuda approached the gentleman and gave a little bow. “May I trouble you to see your boarding pass, sir?”

“What for?” the man responded.

“Well, it seems the lady here”—he indicated the woman standing behind him—“has a seat assignment for the seat you are sitting in, and that is why I wanted to check your boarding pass.”

“I’m in the right seat,” the man said.

“I am not at all questioning that, sir, it could very well be a problem with the booking system, but I need to check nevertheless.” He bestowed another broad smile on the scowling ape.

With a frown, the man searched his pockets and finally extracted a crumpled boarding pass. “There it is, if you’re so interested in it.”

“Thank you so very much.” Tatsuda saw immediately the man was in the wrong seat; the wrong section, even. “You are Mr. Gideon Crew?”

“That’s what it says, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed it does. Now, Mr. Crew, according to this boarding pass”—another expansive smile—“you are actually booked in our business-class section, up front.”

“Business? I’m not traveling on business. I’m visiting my son.”

This man, Tatsuda thought, was almost miraculously stupid. The pugnacious expression on the man’s face, the protruding lips, furrowed brow and tilted chin, only confirmed it. “Mr. Crew, business class is not just for business travelers. There’s more room up there and a higher quality of service.” He waved the boarding pass. “You’re supposed to be in a much more expensive seat.”

Crew frowned. “My son bought the ticket, I don’t know anything about that, but I’m settled in right here, thank you.”

Tatsuda had never quite dealt with a situation like this before. He glanced back at the woman whose seat Crew occupied. Being Japanese, she had understood nothing of the exchange. He turned back to the man. “Sir, do you mean to say you would prefer to remain here for the duration of the flight? Your seat in business class will be much more comfortable.”

“That’s what I said, didn’t I? I don’t like businesspeople. Bunch of crooks. I want to be right here, in the middle of the plane where I’m safe, not up front in the death zone. That’s what I told my son, and that’s what I want.”

Another bow. Tatsuda turned to the woman and switched to Japanese. “The gentleman,” he said, “would like to exchange your seat here in economy class with his business-class seat at the front of the aircraft. Does this meet with your approval?”

It met with her approval.

With a passenger such as Gideon Crew, Tatsuda knew that the ordeal was only beginning, and the next challenge came as soon as the captain turned off the seat belt sign. As Tatsuda passed down the aisle taking drink orders, he found Crew on his feet, hunched over his seat. He had pulled up his cushion and was feeling all along the seams and in the spaces behind the seat.

“May I be of assistance, Mr. Crew?”

“I lost my damn contact lens.”

“Allow me to help.”

He squinted at Tatsuda with one eye. “Help? How’re you going to do that when I can hardly turn around in here?”

Tatsuda could see the passenger next to Crew rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“If you do need help, please let me know. In the meantime, may I have your drink order, Mr. Crew?”

“Gin and tonic.”

“Yes, sir.” Tatsuda withdrew, but he kept an eye on Crew from the galley. The man had finished searching and palpating the seat cushion and was now fumbling about in the seat compartment. He could see that the man’s rough handling had actually caused one of the seams in the cushion to come apart, and the seat covering as well seemed to be falling loose. He would have to carefully monitor the man’s alcoholic intake, as he looked exactly like the type who used a long plane journey as an excuse to get drunk.

But Crew did not order a second drink, and after an endless and obsessive search that even involved several overhead compartments, as if his contact lens might have somehow fallen upward, the man fell back in his seat and went soundly to sleep. And, to Tatsuda’s great relief, the difficult passenger proceeded to sleep like a baby all the way to Tokyo.

32

Gideon Crew stepped into the vast interior of the Tai Tam Hotel in Hong Kong. He stood still for a moment, looking around while buttoning his suit, taking in the acres of white and black marble, the cold opulence of gold and glass. There did not seem to be anything untoward about his arrival; he had gotten through customs without a hitch and everything had gone smoothly. He was fairly sure he had shaken Nodding Crane and any potential henchmen from his trail long before he left America. Who would imagine a person, being chased by a Chinese agent, getting on a plane and flying to China? The unexpected way was often the safer way.

He approached the desk, gave his name, picked up his room card, and rode an elevator to the twenty-second floor. He had booked an expensive room with a view of Hong Kong’s harbor, a necessary part of his cover, and he’d had to spend a considerable amount on some really sharp clothing. The twenty thousand Glinn had given him was almost gone, and he could only hope another infusion of cash would miraculously appear. Otherwise he would be in deep shit.

He threw the stupid hat in the trash, along with the plastic carry-on bag, took a shower, and changed into fresh, crisp clothes. Forty Benjamins’ worth, not counting the thousand-dollar shoes.

“A man could get used to this,” he said aloud, examining himself in the mirror. He wondered if he should cut his hair, decided against it: the modish length made him look dot-com.

He glanced at his watch. Four in the afternoon—of the next day. After thoroughly searching Wu’s plane seat and making sure nothing had been left behind, he’d slept so well he’d be good for another two days. And now he had work to do.

Taking the elevator down to the lobby, he went into the Kowloon Bar, taking a seat and ordering a Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist. The bar’s purple light gave his skin a cadaverous look. He drank it down, paid in cash, and made his way back to the lobby. The concierge desk stood to one side; Gideon waited until a few people there drifted away, and then went over. There were two concierges, and he picked the younger one.

“May I help you, sir?” the man said. He was a perfect specimen of neutrality, discretion, and professionalism.

Gideon walked him over to the far end of the desk and leaned forward, speaking in a low, conspiratorial voice. “I’m a businessman, traveling alone.”

A faint nod of understanding.

“I’m interested in engaging an escort for the evening. Are you the man I should speak to about that?”

The concierge said, equally quietly but his voice betraying nothing, “We have a gentleman who handles these requests. May I ask you to come with me?”

Gideon followed the man across the lobby and through a door into a suite of small offices. The concierge ushered him into one. Another man, of identical discretion and almost identical appearance, rose from behind the desk. “Please sit down.”

Gideon took a seat while the concierge left, shutting the door behind him. The gentleman reseated himself at the desk, on which sat several phones and computers. “What kind of escort service are you interested in?” he asked.

“Well.” Gideon gave a nervous chuckle, making sure to breathe out plenty of martini fumes. “A man traveling, away from his family, gets kind of lonely, you know what I mean?”

“Certainly,” the man said, and waited, his hands clasped.

“Well, um…” He cleared his throat. “I want a Caucasian. Blond. Athletic. Over six feet. Young but not too young. You know, late twenties.”

A nod.

“Um, is it possible to get special services with the escort?”

“Yes,” said the man simply.

“Well, in that case…” He hesitated and then said it all at once: “I’d like a dominatrix. You know what that is?”

“That can be arranged,” said the man.

“I want the best. The most experienced.”

A slow nod. “The escort services here require cash payment up front. Do you need to visit our private banking facilities before I make the arrangements?”

“No, I’m in the green already,” he said, with another nervous laugh, tapping the wallet in his suit coat. Christ, this might use up the last of his money.

The man rose. “And when would you need the escort?”

“Soon as possible. I’d like her for drinks, dinner, then the evening, till, say, midnight.”

“Very well. She will contact your room by phone when she arrives.”

33

Gideon entered the bar and saw her sitting at the end, drink in hand. He was surprised at how attractive she was, tall and willowy, not the muscled roller-derby type he had expected. He, for his part, had shed his suit and changed into tight black jeans, a T-shirt, and Chuck Taylors. He approached her and sat down.

“I’m waiting for someone,” she said, in an Australian accent.

“I’m the man you’re waiting for. Gideon Crew, at your service.” The bartender came over. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

“That would be a Pellegrino.”

“Yikes! Get rid of that and bring us a brace of double martinis.”

He found her staring at him, and he fancied he saw a look of pleasant surprise in her face.

“I thought I was meeting some fat old suit,” she said.

“Nope. I’m a thin, young non-suit. And your name is?”

A smile crept across her face. “Gerta. How old are you?”

“About your age. Where are you from? Coomooroo? Goomalling?”

She giggled. “You’re a daft one. You been to Australia?”

He looked at his watch. “Let’s take these drinks into the restaurant and get something to eat. I’m famished.”

In the hotel restaurant, after plying her with Château Pétrus and sweetbreads, Gideon unburdened himself. He did it slowly, reluctantly, and only under gentle urging. He told Gerta about how he had made a fortune selling his company, how he’d worked so hard he’d hardly ever seen his little son, how his wife divorced him and then they were both killed in a car crash, how he hardly recognized his son’s little body in the casket at the wake because it had been so long since he’d last seen him…And now, here he was, a billionaire and so lonely he would trade all of it—all of it—for one hour with his son. One hour of the countless many he had thrown away making all that money while his son waited for him to come home every night, sometimes waiting up with a flashlight under the covers so he wouldn’t be asleep when Daddy came home. But he always was asleep, lying there, flashlight still on. Gideon removed a photograph of an adorable blond boy from his wallet and shed a solitary tear over it, and declared himself the loneliest, saddest billionaire on the planet.

He was rewarded with a corresponding tear from Gerta.

Back in the room, Gerta started to bring out her kit with what he noted was a certain reluctance, but as she was unzipping the duffel Gideon told her he’d never met anyone like her before and he wanted her to be his friend and wanted to talk a little more, she was so funny and interesting, and he couldn’t imagine now going through that stuff with her—the stuff that helped him forget, just the smallest bit—because he now respected her far too much.

Gideon asked about some of her more interesting experiences and she, reluctantly at first but then more eagerly—stimulated by his fascination—began to tell him about her work. They sat side by side on the bed, Gerta talking. After five or six of her war stories, she finally got to it. It had happened, she said, about two weeks ago. She’d been hired by this fellow from an Australian firm for a special job. Apparently the Chinese had ripped off this firm’s technology—did Gideon know China had been stealing from Australian companies for some time?—and they wanted her to get one of the Chinese executives in a compromising position in order to get the technology back. Ten thousand dollars for an evening’s work.

“I was expecting some Chinese gangster type,” she said, “but he was small and nervous. No bigger than a mozzie. Took him forever to get out what he wanted me to do.” She giggled. “But when he got going…here, look out!”

Gideon laughed along with her and went to open a split of Veuve from the minibar. He poured out two glasses.

“Yeah, it was pretty funny. He was like an eager teenager.”

“What kind of work did he do?” Gideon asked.

“He made it seem all deep and dark sounding, something to do with electricity. Never even mentioned his real business was ripping off Australia.”

“Electricity?” Gideon popped a second split.

“Well, I think that’s what he said, electricity or maybe electrons or something like that. Hinted around that it was going to change everything, China was going take over the world. He got pretty drunk, wasn’t making a lot of sense.”

“Were the Australians who hired you happy with the information?”

“They were more interested in getting it all on videotape. They were going to force him to give back their technology.”

“What kind of technology?”

Gerta took a deep swig of champagne. “They wouldn’t tell me. Secret.”

“This all took place in his room?”

“Oh yeah. I never engage my own room.”

“Did you notice if he had a laptop with him? Or a portable hard drive?”

She paused and looked at him. “No. Why?”

Gideon realized he might be pushing it too far. “Just curious. You said he was a scientist—I was thinking maybe the stolen technology might have been in the room.”

“Maybe. I didn’t notice. The room was very neat, everything put away.”

He decided to push it once more. “Did he say anything about a secret weapon?”

“Secret weapon? No, just a lot of talk about China dominating the world, the usual bragging. I get that a lot from Chinese businessmen. They all think in ten, twenty years China’s gonna bury the rest of us.”

“What else did he say?”

“Not much. Once it was over, he suddenly got really paranoid, looked around the room for bugs, was afraid for me to leave. He sobered up real quick. It was kind of scary, actually, how freaked out he got.”

“And they paid you ten thousand?”

“Five up front, five afterward.”

“Australians, you said?”

“Right. And from Sydney, where I’m from. It was nice to meet some mates from Oz.”

Gideon nodded. The CIA was cleverer than he thought.

“And then,” she went on, with a laugh, spilling a bit of champagne, “there was the guy a couple of years ago wanted to bring his pet monkey. Ugh. Monkeys are nasty beasts, and I mean nasty! You won’t believe what he wanted…”

She eventually fell asleep on top of the covers, snoring softly. Gideon carefully tucked her in on one side, then climbed in the other, his own head whirling from the martinis, wine, and champagne.

34

They arrived about eight in the morning, dressed in blue suits like a group of Hong Kong real estate developers, unlocking the door with their own key and filing into the room. They stood around politely as their leader spoke.

“Mr. Gideon Crew?”

Gideon sat up in bed, his head pounding. “Um, yes?” This was not good.

“Please come with us.”

He stared. The girl, Gerta, was still sleeping soundly next to him. “No, thanks.”

The two men flanking the leader casually removed identical nine-millimeter Beretta pistols, letting them dangle.

“Let us please not have trouble. This is a nice hotel.”

“May I get dressed?”

“Please.”

He got out of bed, all the men staring at him, trying to shake off his hangover and getting up to speed on his situation. He hoped Gerta wouldn’t wake up. That would add an element of unpredictability. He had to think of something fast. Once they got him into a car, it would be all over.

“May I shower first?”

“No.”

Gideon moved to dress in the walk-in closet.

“Take your clothes out and dress here.”

Slowly, thinking all the while, he pulled on the four-thousand-dollar suit and shoes, tie, the works. After spending all that money, he was loath to lose the clothes.

“Walk with us.” They closed around him in a tight group. The guns disappeared as they moved out the door and into the corridor. They all got into a waiting elevator. Gideon’s mind was running like mad, but he could come up with nothing. Make a scene in the lobby? Start screaming like a madman? Say he was being kidnapped? Run for it? As he played out every scenario, one way or another he ended up either shot or hustled off. The problem was, these men would surely have a better story than his. And official identification. He couldn’t win.

The elevator arrived at the lobby level, the doors whispered open, and they stepped into the marbled space. At the far end of the lobby, beyond the wall of glass looking onto the entrance, he could see three black SUVs pulled up in a row, guarded by several additional men in blue suits. His escorts prodded him forward, moving fast.

What if he broke and ran? Would they shoot him? Even if he escaped, where would he go? He knew no one in Hong Kong and had only about two thousand dollars left: chump change around here. They would flag him before he left the country. And he’d been forced to travel under his own name: you couldn’t get a fake passport these days.

They shoved him toward the door, toward the trio of idling, black SUVs.

35

Hey!”

He heard a shout from across the lobby and saw a woman charging toward them. Mindy Jackson. She had her CIA wallet out, held open in front of her outstretched arm like a battering ram. “You there! Halt!”

The voice was so loud it brought everyone in the echoing lobby to a standstill.

She busted into the group like a bowling ball into a set of pins, pushing Gideon to one side. Then she wheeled about and shouted at them again. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m CIA assistant bureau chief here and this is my colleague. He’s got diplomatic immunity! How dare you disrespect diplomatic status!” She seized Gideon and yanked him toward the door.

Half a dozen handguns were immediately out, pointing at her. “You go nowhere!” the lead man shouted, advancing toward her.

Her own weapon came out in a flash, an S&W .38 chief’s special. There were sudden screams in the lobby as the guns were drawn, people ducking behind chairs and vases. “Oh yeah?” she cried. “You want a shootout with the CIA right here, right now? Come on! Think of the promotion you’ll get for shooting up the lobby of the Tai Tam Hotel!”

As she spoke at high volume, her voice ringing out, she continued hauling Gideon toward the door. The men seemed frozen as the two barged through an emergency exit, where she shoved him into the backseat of a waiting Crown Victoria. She got in behind him and slammed the door and the car screeched from the curb, leaving the group of blue-suited Chinese running to their SUVs.

“Motherfucker,” she said, shoving the S&W back into a shoulder holster and leaning back in the seat with a sigh. “Motherfucker. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?”

“I owe you thanks—”

“Thanks? You owe me your life. I can’t believe you walked your ass right into the lion’s den like this. Are you crazy?”

Gideon had to admit it seemed, in retrospect, a foolish decision.

She glanced back. “And now they’re following.”

“Where are we going?”

“Airport.”

“They’re going to stop us from leaving the country.”

“They’re confused. They’re asking for instructions. It all depends on how fast the intelligence bureaucracy can get their shit together. You know how to handle a handgun?”

“Yes.”

She pulled a .32 Walther from her waistband and handed it to him with an extra loaded magazine. “Whatever you do, for God’s sake don’t shoot anybody. Follow my instructions.”

“Okay.”

She spoke to the driver. “Slow down, let them get closer.”

“Why?” the man behind the wheel asked.

“It may reveal their intentions. Are they just following? Or do they want to run us off the road?”

The driver slowed considerably and the lead black SUV came cruising up, fast, in the left lane. It braked to their speed, a smoked window came down, and the muzzle of a gun poked out.

“Duck!”

The round blew out both rear windows, showering them with little cubes of glass. At the same moment their driver made a sickening evasive move, veering across four lanes of traffic on the Eastern Island Corridor, wheels squealing on the diamond-cut surface.

“You ascertained their intentions,” said Gideon drily.

“Yeah, and it looks like they got their instructions.”

The car was accelerating again along the corridor, weaving through traffic, heading for the exchange leading into the Cross-Harbour Tunnel.

“There’s going to be a traffic jam at the tunnel,” said the driver. “What’ll we do?”

Mindy didn’t answer. Gideon looked back. The SUV—and the two others—were whipping through traffic, pacing them.

Thunk! Another round punched through the side of their car with the sound of a sledgehammer on steel. Jackson leaned out the broken window, fired five shots in rapid succession. The SUVs took evasive action, dropping back.

Crouching by the floor, she snapped open the cylinder, shoved in fresh rounds, snapped it shut. “Keep your head down.”

“There’s no way they’re going to let us out of the country,” Gideon said.

Thunk! Another round clipped the rear of the car.

Gideon ducked, his hands over his head.

“It’s a lot harder than it looks to shoot a handgun from a car,” she said. “It isn’t like in the movies. Give me your passport.”

He fished it out of his pocket. He could hear the roar of the engine, the wheels squealing, the blaring horns of cars rapidly falling away behind—and now the sounds of sirens. She snatched the passport, reached into a bag, and pulled out an embosser and a small circular stamp. Opening the passport, she stamped it, signed it, and embossed it. “You now have diplomatic status,” she said as she handed it back.

“Is that CIA standard issue?”

She smiled grimly as the car slowed.

Gideon peeked out. They were entering the sunken approach to the Cross-Harbour Tunnel. The black SUVs, in dropping back, had gotten stuck many cars behind.

The traffic slowed further, bunched, and finally came to a halt.

Gideon peered out the window again and saw the blue suits pouring out of the black SUVs a hundred yards behind. They raced toward the Crown Vic, fanning out among the cars, guns drawn.

“We’re screwed,” he said.

“Not at all. As soon as I get out, start firing your gun over their heads. Be sure not to hit anyone.”

“Wait—”

But in a flash she jumped out, running at a crouch, dodging the lines of stopped traffic. He aimed slightly over the heads of the approaching suits and depressed the trigger, the handgun kicking back, one, two, three shots, deafeningly loud between the enclosed walls of the sunken approach. The suits dove to the ground and a chorus of screams rose up around him, doors flying open, cars emptying.

Instant chaos. Now he saw Jackson’s strategy. He fired two more shots, adding to the panic: more doors were flung open, screams, people climbing over cars, shrieking, running like mad in every direction.

The blue suits rose and tried to press their way forward against the fleeing crowd, but it was like fighting an incoming tide. Gideon fired again, high, this time in all directions, boom boom boom boom! The panic spread and the suits once again dove for cover. The crowd surged outward, triggering panic in more distant cars, which emptied in turn, in ever-expanding waves. He heard Jackson firing the S&W somewhere behind, the snub-nosed revolver louder than his .32. At the noise, part of the fleeing crowd reversed direction in a panic, people colliding into one another, scrambling under cars. Gideon heard windows breaking, horns blaring. He tried to locate the blue suits but they had completely vanished in the surging mob, pinned down or maybe even trampled.

Suddenly the door was pulled open and he swung around to see Jackson. She passed the back of one hand across her forehead and holstered her weapon. “Time to split.”

He jumped out and they ran with the mob, heading back out the sunken approach. It was like an infection, the mob steadily growing as people continued to abandon their cars in a spreading pool of frenzy. It appeared that people were assuming a terrorist attack.

Swept along by the mob, they emerged from the sunken roadway. The crowd spilled over a cement barrier wall, tumbling down a short embankment and onto Hung Hing Road, where they poured in a screaming mass northward into the Hong Kong Yacht Club. The crowd instantly overwhelmed two men in a pillbox at a barrier gate, knocked it down, and scattered down the gracious, tree-lined avenue into the club grounds.

“Stay with me.” Jackson split off from the main throng and doubled back down a service road, crossed a set of railroad tracks, and climbed over a chain-link fence. They ended up leaving the crowds behind, running along a promenade overlooking Victoria Harbour. The promenade curved around to a paved asphalt jetty that stood out into the harbor. She had been yelling into her cell phone for a while and now she snapped it shut.

“Out there.” She ran down the broad tarmac jetty.

“It’s a dead end!” he cried. But then he saw, ahead, a huge yellow H stenciled on the tarmac, inside a yellow circle. He looked up and, on cue, heard the sound of a chopper, coming in low and fast. It swung around the jetty, decelerated, then settled, rotors slowing. They ran toward it as a door opened. No sooner had they jumped in than it took off again, sweeping across the harbor.

Mindy Jackson settled into a jumpseat, buckled her seat belt, and turned to him. She eased a notebook out of her pocket, along with a pen. “I just saved your ass. Now you’re going to tell me the numbers. And no more bullshit.”

He told her the numbers.

36

They boarded the first commercial plane out, an Emirates flight to Dubai, using their diplomatic stamps to bypass passport control. They arrived in Dubai about nine o’clock local time. Their connecting flight to New York wasn’t until morning.

“Bur Dubai Hotel is rather nice,” Mindy Jackson said as they passed through customs and headed for the taxi queue. “You owe me a stiff one.”

He spread his hands. “Drink, or…?”

She colored. “Drink. A stiff drink. What a mind you have.”

They got into a cab. “The Bur Dubai,” she told the driver, then turned to Gideon. “The Cooz Bar is a jazz-and-cigar kind of place. Red velvet chairs, leopardskin bar stools, lots of blond wood.”

“Funny, I didn’t take you for a cigar smoker.”

After crawling through nighttime traffic, the cab finally pulled up in front of the hotel, two curved, ultramodern black-and-white buildings intersecting each other. They went straight to the bar without checking in, just in time to catch the second set.

As they were seated, the big band began to play. Predictably, the opening tune was the Ellington number “Caravan.” Gideon listened; they weren’t half bad. The waiter came over.

“I’ll have an Absolut martini,” Jackson said, “dry and dirty, with two olives. And,” she went on, eyeing the cigar list, “bring me a Bolívar Coronas Gigantes.”

Gideon ordered a beer, going light after his overindulgence the night before. The waiter returned with the drinks and the cigar.

“You going to smoke that?” Gideon asked, eyeing the torpedo-shaped aluminum tube.

“No, you are. I like watching a man smoke a cigar.”

Giving in to his baser instincts, Gideon removed the cigar, ran it under his nose. It was very fine. He cut off the end with the supplied trimmer and lit it.

Jackson eyed him sideways. “Like I said. You look good with a cigar.”

“Let’s just hope I don’t get cancer and they have to cut my lips off.”

“Such nice lips, too.” She sipped her drink, still looking at him. “You know, I’ve never seen anyone with quite your looks. Jet black hair, bright blue eyes.”

“Black Irish. Except I’m not Irish.”

“I’ll bet you sunburn easily.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Here, so far from home, Jackson seemed like a different person. “You have any idea what those numbers mean?” he asked her.

“Not yet. I’ve already phoned them in.”

“I’d like to know if they find anything.”

Jackson remained silent. The band slid into another Ellington classic, “Mood Indigo.”

Having given her the numbers, Gideon felt he could push just a little harder. “So tell me more about this Nodding Crane character. He sounds like something out of a Bond movie.”

“In a way he is. A bred assassin. We know very little about him—comes from the Chinese far west, of Mongolian extraction, got more than a little Genghis Khan in him. He was raised—so we hear—in a special training unit that immersed him in American culture. Employed by the 810 Office, apparently.”

“The 810 Office?”

She looked at him strangely. “For an operative, even a private one, you’re unusually ignorant.”

“I’m a new hire.”

“The 810 Office is the Chinese version of the Gestapo or the KGB, only smaller and more focused. It’s under the personal control of a few top Communist Party officials. Nodding Crane is one of their best men, and it appears he’s been chemically and hormonally pumped up. He’s trained to the max, but he’s not the crude killing machine you might think. He’s intelligent and, like I said, steeped in American pop culture. I saw one report that says he plays bottleneck guitar. Blues.”

“Seems hard to believe. But if he’s so good, why did he fuck up with Wu?”

“Fuck up? His orders were to kill Wu and escape. And that’s exactly what he did. The collateral damage was of no consequence—to him.”

“But he didn’t get the plans.”

“He didn’t expect to—not then. That’s phase two. He’s working on that now.”

“Why’s he after me?”

“Come on, Gideon. There are half a dozen witnesses who saw you writing down those numbers. He doesn’t need the numbers—his job is to make sure anyone who knows them is dead.”

Gideon shook his head, took a small puff from the cigar. “If he’s that good, I’d be dead already.”

“You’ve been awfully clever so far. Or maybe it’s dumb luck. Thing is, you’re unpredictable. Going to Hong Kong—that’s the last move anyone would have expected.”

“You expected it.”

“Not at all. There’s a general alert on you at the airports, your exit was flagged. When you return to the States, Nodding Crane’ll be waiting for you. I doubt you’ll survive.” She smiled and fished an olive out of the glass, lobbed it into her mouth.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. I might point out that now I’ve told you the numbers, you’re a target yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me.”

He took another puff. “How could Wu just walk off with the plans, anyway?”

“Maybe he’d been considering it for some time. He’s one of their top people, he’d have had complete access. It could be the honey trap was the final push he needed.”

“How do you know he even had the plans?”

“That’s the intelligence we received. It was expensive, and it’s ironclad.”

“Could the scientist himself be a red herring? A setup?”

“Doubtful.”

“Any specifics about the weapon itself?”

“That’s the scariest part. We don’t know if it’s an enhanced thermonuclear device or something completely new. The mix of scientists at Lop Nor suggests the latter—there’s a lack of nuclear physicists and HE experts on site, but a lot of metallurgists, nanotechnologists, condensed matter and quantum physicists.”

“Quantum physicists? It sounds like it might be an exotic particle weapon—a laser weapon, mini black hole—or even a matter–antimatter device.”

“You’re smarter than you look. What exactly do you do at Los Alamos, anyway?”

“I design and test high-explosive lenses.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s classified. Suffice to say they’re lenses of conventional high explosive that go into the assemblies used for imploding the cores of nuclear devices.”

She took another sip of her drink. “And just how does somebody go about getting background experience for a job like that?”

Gideon shrugged. “Well, in my case, I liked blowing things up.”

“You mean, like cars? People?”

“Nah. Started out as kid stuff. I used to make my own pyrotechnical devices, mixed my own gunpowder. Fireworks, sort of. I’d set them off in the woods behind our house and charge neighborhood kids a quarter to watch. Later on they proved to have…other uses.” He yawned.

“Quite the renaissance man. Want to order food?”

“I’m too tired to eat.”

“Tired? In that case, should we book two rooms?” Her voice trailed off and her lips curled into a suggestive smile.

He looked at her green eyes, glossy hair, freckled nose. He could see the pulse in her throat throbbing softly. “Not that tired.”

She dropped a fifty on the table and rose. “Good. I’d hate spending the government’s money on a room if no one’s going to use it.”

37

Roger Marion locked and bolted the door to his apartment with a sigh. It was a busy Thursday in Chinatown and Mott Street had been awash with humanity, the animal murmur still filtering up into his apartment through the closed and barred windows looking onto the fire escape facing the street.

He paused to collect himself, to reestablish the center of calm destroyed by the city’s incessant chaos. He closed his eyes, entered into stillness, and performed the set of movements known as mile shenyao, his motions free and unconstrained. He could feel the Law Wheel turning, turning, forever turning.

When the exercises were complete, he went into the kitchen to make tea. Placing the kettle on to boil, he took down the heavy iron teapot and a can of loose white tea, arranging them on the counter. Just before the water came to a boil he removed the kettle, poured some water into the iron pot to heat it, swished it around and dumped it out, spooned in a batch of curly white tea leaves, and covered them with more hot water. He carried the pot and cup into the living room and found a man standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, a smile on his face.

“Tea, how lovely,” said the man in Chinese. He was dressed in a nondescript suit, white shirt, gray repp tie; his face was as smooth and unlined as a bolt of silk; his eyes cool and empty, his movements graceful. Underneath the clothes, Marion could see he was a perfect specimen of lean athleticism.

“It must steep,” said Marion, revealing no surprise, although it astonished and confounded him that the man had been able to enter the apartment. “Allow me to bring another cup in for you.”

The man nodded and Marion turned, going back into the kitchen. As he took the cup down from the cupboard, he eased a small knife out of a block on the counter and slipped it behind his back.

Back in the living room, Marion placed the cup beside the pot.

“I prefer white tea to be steeped at least ten minutes,” said the man. “Which will allow us time to talk.”

Marion waited.

The man clasped his hands behind his back and began a slow perambulation of the room. “I’m looking for something,” he said. He stopped in front of the banner hanging on the wall, examined it.

Marion said nothing. He put together in his mind the most efficient set of moves necessary to put the knife in the man’s throat.

“Do you know where it is?” the man asked.

“You haven’t told me what you’re looking for.”

“You don’t know?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The man waved this comment off as if he were waving away a mosquito. “What were you going to do with it?”

Marion said nothing. All was prepared in his mind. “Tea?”

The man turned. “It hasn’t steeped long enough.”

“I prefer it on the more delicate side.”

“Help yourself, then. I’ll wait.”

Marion bent forward with an easy motion and picked up the iron pot by the handle. His mind was as clear and bright as a diamond. He tipped the pot up, filling the cup with hot liquid, placed the pot down, brought the cup up in an unhurried motion as if to his lips and then, with a quick flick of the wrist, sent the scalding contents into the man’s face while at the same time extracting the knife with a lightning motion, slashing it across the man’s throat.

But the man, and the throat, weren’t there, and the knife flashed harmlessly through the air. Briefly overbalanced by the motion, Marion’s weight went forward, and as he tried to recover, an arm with a clawed hand came shooting out of nowhere; Marion saw what looked like metal talons; he tried to duck but it was too late; he felt a savage tug on his throat and a sudden burning rush of air.

The last thing he saw was the man standing beside him, clutching what he realized was his own bloody, pulsing windpipe.

Nodding Crane took a few steps back from the twitching body as blood pumped out onto the carpet. He dropped the grisly part and waited until all was still, then he stepped around the obstruction and into the kitchen. He washed his hands three times in very hot water and carefully examined his suit. There were no flecks of the xiǎorén, the small person, on his clothing. All the force of the movement had been away from his body. There were just a few drops of blood on his left wing-tip shoe, which he meticulously cleaned with a damp rag, followed by a quick polish.

Back in the living room, the blood had ceased to flow. The carpet had absorbed a great deal of it, keeping the bloodstain from spreading. Stepping around it again, he poured himself a cup of tea and tasted it with pleasure. The steeping time had been perfect. He sipped it down and poured another, bringing to mind a particularly appropriate thought from his vast storehouse of Confucian philosophy: When punishments are not properly awarded, the people do not know how to move hand or foot.

38

Gideon Crew strolled around the baggage carousel, as if awaiting luggage. He had no luggage coming in, of course, but he wanted to check out who else was there. Mindy Jackson’s parting words rang in his ears. “Nodding Crane is remarkable only in that he is unremarkable. Except for flat eyes and a perfect physique.” There were, of course, many Asians at the carousel, including a number who fit Mindy’s rather unhelpful description.

Don’t get paranoid, he told himself. Focus on the next step.

He extracted his wallet, riffled through the money he had left. About a thousand. Not for the first time, he felt a stab of annoyance at how Glinn and company seemed to have abandoned him.

But when you return to the States, he’ll be waiting. I doubt you’ll survive.

His next step was obvious. If Wu hadn’t passed off the plans after exiting customs, and they weren’t on his person, he might have passed them off to someone before clearing customs. Conveniently, Gideon was now inside the customs security zone. Even as he pondered his approach, the endless looped warning rang out again on the PA system: Please report suspicious persons or unattended luggage to the appropriate authority.

Carpe diem.

He looked about, spied a TSA guard. “Excuse me,” he said, “I believe I’ve seen something suspicious and wish to report it to the appropriate authority.”

“I can take the report,” said the guard.

“No,” said Gideon primly. “I have to report it to appropriate authority. It’s very important.”

“As I said, I’ll take the report.”

“But the announcement said appropriate authority,” Gideon said, more loudly. “No offense intended, but you’re a guard. I want to speak to someone in authority—just as the announcement directs. There’s no time to waste. I’ve seen something very startling, and I need to report it immediately.” He compressed his lips and put on a truculent expression.

The guard’s eyes flickered. “All right, follow me.”

He led Gideon through a back door and past a warren of windowless cubicles and passageways to a shut door. The guard knocked, and a voice called them in.

“Thank you,” said Gideon, entering, turning, and shutting the door in the guard’s face.

He turned back and saw a soft, dough-like man seated behind a large desk completely covered with paper. “What’s this?”

The guard tried to enter but Gideon, standing at the door, blocked it with his foot. He tossed his passport on the desk and said, “CIA. Send the guard away.”

The man lifted the passport to examine it. The guard knocked again. “Open up.”

“Thank you,” the man called to the guard. “That will be all. Return to duty.”

He turned his attention back to the passport and scowled at the diplomatic stamps. “Doesn’t say anything about CIA. Got a badge?”

“Of course not!” Gideon said sharply. “We don’t carry ID when we work under diplomatic cover.”

The man put down the passport. “Okay, what’s up?”

Gideon gave the man a long, hostile stare. “Captain Longbaugh?”

“That’s what the badge says. Now you better tell me what’s on your mind, sir, because as you can see I’m pretty busy.” What he could see was that Longbaugh was used to dealing with petty bureaucrats and officials. He was going to be a tough nut to crack.

Gideon pulled a notebook from his pocket, consulted it. “On June seventh, at twelve twenty-three AM, a Japan Airlines flight arrived with a passenger on board, Mark Wu. He was followed as he left JFK, and his taxi was forced off the street in Spanish Harlem. Perhaps you read about that accident. Eight people were killed, including Mr. Wu.”

“I did.”

“We need a copy of the security tapes that captured his movements from the point of debarkation to where he hired the taxi.”

Longbaugh stared at him. “I’ll need to see some sort of paperwork on this.”

Gideon took a step forward. “We’ve got an ongoing terrorist situation here and you want to ‘see paperwork’? Is this where we still are, after 9/11 and two wars?”

“Sir, we have procedures in place…”

Gideon leaned in and screamed into Longbaugh’s face like a drill sergeant, hitting him with spittle. “Procedures? Paperwork? When people’s lives are at stake?”

It was, he realized, a high-risk/high-reward approach. If it didn’t work, he was screwed.

But it did. “No need to scream,” said Longbaugh, leaning back, suddenly and thoroughly intimidated. “I’m sure we can work it out.”

“Then work it out! Now!”

The man was sweating bullets, clearly in a panic about making the wrong decision. Gideon suddenly took a much softer, kinder tone. “Look, Captain, I know you’re concerned about doing the right thing. I respect that. I’ll put in a good word up the line about you when this is over. But you’ve got to understand, paperwork takes time. And we just don’t have time.” He leaned in. “I’m going to share something with you. I’m not supposed to, but I can see you’re a trustworthy individual. We’ve got a flight midway across the Pacific with a known terrorist on board—they let the son of a bitch on in Lagos. We have reason to believe he is planning a terrorist action here.”

“Oh my God.”

“Oh my God is right. We’re way behind the curve on this one, trying to catch up. We’re flooding the terminal with undercover people as we speak, but I’ve got to see those tapes. There appears to be a vital link.”

“I understand.”

“Can we do this really, really quietly?” Gideon pleaded. “If we spook this guy or his accomplices…” He let his voice trail off.

Now he had Longbaugh one hundred percent on his side.

“I’m on it.” The man rose. “Come with me.”

The central security operations room lay in the bowels of the airport, and it was very impressive, walls of video screens and consoles with all the latest gear. The room was dim and hushed, dozens of people staring at monitors, not just of airport locations, but also feeds from bag scanners and X-ray machines and cams observing the taxiways and hangars.

Their efficiency was astounding. Twenty minutes later Gideon was exiting customs with a fresh, piping-hot DVD.

39

Got a movie for us tonight,” Gideon said, sliding into the white leather banquette in the Essex House lounge, bestowing a smile on Mindy Jackson. He turned to the waiter. “Bring me what she’s having, wet and dirty, two olives.”

“What movie?” asked Jackson.

“The Mark Wu show.” He laid down the DVD. “Shows him from the time he exited the plane to the taxi stand.”

She laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve already seen that show. It sucks—nothing on it. Nada.”

Gideon felt his face turn red. “You’ve seen it?”

“Are you kidding? That was the first thing we looked at. How’d you get it?”

The drink arrived, and Gideon took a swig to cover his disappointment. “I used those diplomatic embosses you put on my passport. And a little yelling.”

“One of these days you’re going to run into somebody who doesn’t fall for your bullshit.”

“So far, so good.”

She shook her head. “Not everyone in the world is stupider than you.”

“I haven’t seen it,” he said. “Will you watch it with me—upstairs in our room?”

“Our room?” Her smile turned a little cold. “What happened in Dubai stays in Dubai. We’ll watch it in my room. You find your own place to sleep. No more pooling, to use your charming phrase.”

Gideon made an effort to look as if he didn’t care.

She polished off her drink and rose. “You’re going to be disappointed.”

“I already am.”

Up in her room, he fired up the DVD player and slid in the disk. The first shot showed a wide angle of the gate, with a time, date, and location stamp running along the bottom. After a moment Wu appeared, looking much as Gideon remembered him: fringe of hair, domed forehead, mousey, somewhat wan. He walked through the frame, threading a group of passengers waiting for the next flight.

The DVD then cut through a series of rapid frames, one after another, showing Wu walking down the terminal, entering passport control, waiting in the interminable NON-US-CITIZEN line, going through passport control, breezing through customs, then walking out and down the escalators.

“Hey. There’s you!” said Jackson. “Like a deer in the headlights.”

“Very funny.”

The DVD ended outside, with the Escape driving off.

Gideon rubbed his eyes. He felt like a damn fool, taking such a risk at the airport—a risk that might well come back to haunt him—for nothing.

“I’m tired,” said Jackson. “I’m jet-lagged, I didn’t sleep a wink last night, thanks to you. Do you mind?”

Gideon was staring at the image of the car, frozen on the screen. “There’s just one thing I’d like to look at again—”

“Out.”

“No, really. Something I’d like to see again. Right at the beginning.”

“What?”

“When Wu walks through those waiting people. Did you see there was an Asian woman there with a boy?”

“There were a lot of Asians.”

“Yes, but—I want to see it again.”

She sighed, turned back to the screen. They watched it again.

“There!” said Gideon abruptly, causing her to jump.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Watch again.” He retracked the video and went through it in slow motion.

“I still didn’t see anything. Trust me, our experts have examined this tape in detail.”

“Quiet and watch…There!” He froze the frame. “A classic sleight. A reverse palm-out manip.”

“A what?”

He felt himself blush. “I studied magic.” He didn’t go into the reasons why he had studied magic. “You learn how to manipulate smallish pieces of paper. Magicians call such moves ‘manips.’ Usually they’re for cards.” He backed up the DVD and went through it again, frame by frame. “Check it out. The boy drops the teddy bear as Wu approaches…she leans over to pick it up…anyone watching would be following her hand picking up the teddy bear. But look at her left hand…you see her left palm is facing out, wrist straight…Then Wu goes past, and afterward her left hand is closed and the wrist slightly bent.”

He ran it through it yet again, frame by frame.

“I think I saw it,” she said doubtfully. “He passed her something.”

“No, no! It’s a reverse—she passed him something. And she did it in a way to hide it from anybody watching from any angle.”

“Why would she pass him something?”

“No idea.” Stopping the replay and getting a small piece of hotel notepaper, he demonstrated the move.

“I’ll be damned. But if she passed him a piece of paper, where is it?”

“Who knows? I expect he destroyed it when he realized he was being pursued.”

“That woman,” said Jackson, “is key. We’ve got to find her.”

Gideon nodded.

She turned to him. “We’ll split up the job. You look for the boy, I’ll look for the woman.”

“How in the world could I find the boy—?” But then he stopped, having noticed something else in the video; something that she, and everyone else, had apparently overlooked.

Jackson was already putting on her coat, gathering her wallet. “Call me if you find anything. I’ll do likewise.”

40

Tom O’Brien’s stubbled face slipped away from his supporting palm, and he awoke with a jerk. He glanced blearily over at the clock: just past ten. He’d been asleep at his desk for several hours and both his legs were tingling. It had happened again: he’d gotten so engrossed in the Python data-handling extension he’d been coding that he’d “wrapped around” the previous night and totally forgotten to sleep.

He stood up with a groan and massaged his legs. Food: that would wake him up.

Sliding a Sacramentum CD into the player and cranking it up, he padded into the kitchen. Pushing away piles of dirty dishes to make a work space, he pulled a baguette from its paper sheath and cut it lengthwise. Quickly he assembled a sandwich: peanut butter, sliced banana, mini marshmallows. A few slices of deli pickle added the final touch. He pressed the two halves of the sandwich together, tucked it under one arm, plucked a liter bottle of Dr Pepper from the fridge, and headed back toward his office.

He neighed in surprise and dismay at the sight of a man in his living room. Bottle and sandwich fell to the floor in unison, marshmallows and pickles flying everywhere. Then he saw it was Gideon Crew.

“Stop doing that!” he yelled at his friend. “If I die of a heart attack, who’s going to solve your little problem?” He knelt down and began reassembling the sandwich, picking cat hairs off the pickles.

“Don’t tell me you’re still eating peanut-butter-and-pickle sandwiches,” Gideon said. “Not interested in living to enjoy your Social Security, I guess.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I’m not the one being chased by half the spooks in Langley.” He scowled. “I haven’t had time to do any more work on those numbers.”

“No? Why not?”

“Unlike some people, I have to work for a living.”

“Yeah. Assistant lecturer at Columbia. When are you going to stop being a perennial grad student and actually earn that degree?”

“And face the real world?” He took a bite of the sandwich and headed into his office, Gideon following. “Look, it’s not just my work. It’s the nature of your problem. I told you, it’s like having a recipe without the ingredients. Three tablespoons of X, two ounces of Y, and a pinch of Z. Without the ingredients, I can’t do squat!”

“There’s something else I need your help on.”

“Do I get another thousand?”

Gideon ignored this, reaching into his coat and pulling out a DVD. “There’s a video capture on this. I need you to blow up and enhance an image for me.”

O’Brien took it and felt his face light up. “Oh. That’s easy.”

Gideon pointed at the music player with a pained expression. “Before we get started, mind turning that off? If any music could be carcinogenic, that’s it.”

O’Brien glanced at him in mock horror. “You don’t like blackened death metal?”

“Not even when it’s the blue plate special.” Gideon looked around for a place to sit, but there was only one chair in the tiny, impossibly crowded office and O’Brien was already in it. “I’ve never seen so much junk crammed into so little space. When are you going to clear some of this crap out?”

“Junk? Crap?” O’Brien sniffed as he turned down the volume of his player. “Everything in here is absolutely necessary to my work. For instance.” And wheeling his chair around, he plucked a gray metal device the size of a shoe box from its precarious perch atop an ancient UNIX terminal, placed it on his desk, plugged it in, and attached it to his PC.

“What’s that?” Gideon asked.

“It’s a VDT.”

“I repeat: what’s that?”

“A virtual digital telecine. Normally used to transfer different kinds of video stock from one format to another. But this particular model is very useful for forensic video work.” Turning it on, he pressed a few buttons on the tiny LED screen, then slid Gideon’s DVD into the slot. As the machine whirred, he took a huge bite of his sandwich, double-clicked an icon on the computer desktop. “I’m firing up the VDT’s host application.”

A large window appeared on the screen, surrounded by several smaller windows that included fine-grained transport controls, gamma correction, and utilities for image manipulation. “Where is it?”

“Just start playback. I’ll tell you when you reach the target image.”

O’Brien clicked the forward button in the transport control window, and an image appeared on the screen. “An airport,” O’Brien said. “Shit. It’s a security tape.”

“So?”

“Their quality sucks. Heavily compressed, too.”

They watched in silence for a minute as a worried-looking Asian man crossed the screen and made his way through a tangle of passengers.

“It’s been hard-telecined,” O’Brien said, staring at the monitor. “A hair under thirty fps—”

“There.” Gideon pointed at the screen. “Back up just a bit, then go forward, frame by frame.”

O’Brien returned playback to the moment the man encountered the group of passengers, then moved forward again.

“Slower, please.”

O’Brien took a lengthy pull of the Dr Pepper, worked the transport controls. “One frame per second.”

They watched together as a boy in the crowd dropped a teddy bear, a woman beside him picked it up, handed it back.

“Pause,” said Gideon. “Now, you see the satchel that boy is carrying?”

“Yup,” O’Brien said, peering at the flickering screen.

“I want you to find the clearest frame of that satchel, then enhance it. It’s got a blurry logo of some kind. I want to know what it is.”

“Sure thing.” O’Brien went backward through the frames, then forward, until he found the clearest shot of the satchel.

“Blurry as hell,” he muttered. “Whoever demultiplexed this for you did a lousy job.”

“They were in a hurry.”

“I’ll have to de-interlace the image or the combing will kill us.” O’Brien’s fingers ran over the keyboard. The image in the main window faded, grew larger.

“What are those bars across the image?” Gideon asked.

“That’s 2:3 pulldown. I’m trying to compensate.” Again he typed a rapid-fire series of commands. The image brightened, stabilized. “That’s better. Let me apply some unsharp masking.” O’Brien moused through a series of sub-menus.

“It’s a shield with a motto,” Gideon said, staring.

O’Brien worked the machine, further refining the image.

“Pectus Est Quod Disertos Facit,” Gideon read from the screen.

“What the hell’s that? Latin?”

“It is the heart that makes men eloquent,” said Gideon.

“What a crock,” said O’Brien, shaking his head sadly at the supreme idiocy of the sentiment. “Who the hell said that?”

“It’s from Quintilian’s Orations. But it’s just pompous and vacuous enough that it might be a private school motto.” He stood up. “Thanks, Tom.”

“Hey. What about that other thousand bucks?”

“Enjoy your sandwich. I’ll be in touch.” He paused just before going out the door. “You haven’t heard from that doctor yet, I suppose?”

“Oh yeah. I did. I meant to tell you about that.”

“And?”

“I hope the guy in those X-rays isn’t really a friend of yours.”

Gideon looked at him. “Why do you say that?”

“According to the doc, he’s fucked.”

41

Gideon slid onto the vinyl stool of the all-night diner and ordered coffee, poached eggs, hash browns, toast, and marmalade. The waitress, her zaftig figure bursting out of a 1950s uniform, took his order and bawled it into the back.

“You should sing opera,” he said distractedly.

She turned to him with a brilliant smile. “I do.”

Only in New York. He nursed his coffee, feeling numb.

I hope the guy in those X-rays isn’t really a friend of yours. Maybe O’Brien’s doctor was wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time. But this was the third opinion.

Would he have been happier not knowing? Just enjoying his final year of life in blissful ignorance? But no—this changed everything. Gideon felt a strange sense of dissociation, as if he were already out of his body, away from the living world. Suddenly, very suddenly, his priorities had shifted. No point anymore in meeting someone, raising a family. No point in advancing his career. No point in not smoking or worrying about his cholesterol count. No point, really, in anything.

He took another sip of coffee, trying to shake the odd feeling of nerveless disbelief. One thing at a time. There’d be plenty of opportunities to think about this later. Right now, he had a job to finish.

He forced his thoughts back to Throckmorton Academy. He’d been correct about the private school motto. Having perused the school’s website, he’d gleaned some important, if inadvertent, information about the place. It was very exclusive, highly protective of information regarding its students and staff, and sophisticated in the management of such information. But every person and organization had a weakness, and Throckmorton Academy’s was written all over its site: overweening self-regard. Pectus Est Quod Disertos Facit. Yeah, right.

The question was how to devise a social engineering plan to exploit that weakness. These were not idiots. He couldn’t go busting in there as a hyper-successful, self-important billionaire hedge fund manager seeking to enroll his son. They would undoubtedly have seen that type before, many times. They would be immune. He couldn’t pose as a celebrity, phony or real: Google had ended that game. Something just the opposite would be required: something that would play more subtly on their hopes, assumptions, and—perhaps—prejudices. As he mulled it over, an approach began to take shape in his head. Unfortunately, it would take two to pull it off. Jackson wouldn’t do: she was off trying to scare up her own leads, and besides, she wasn’t the type. No, it would have to be Orchid. Orchid would be perfect. He pushed away the sting of guilt at using her again, telling himself the ends were worth the means. After all, hadn’t she said she wanted him to call her?

A man slid onto the stool next to his, laying a folded Post down on the counter. Gideon was irritated that, in an empty diner at three o’clock in the morning, some asshole had to sit down right next to him.

The waitress came out with his plate, laid it down, and turned to the other man. He ordered coffee and Danish.

She poured it, brought him the Danish, and retired into the kitchen.

“How’s it going?” the man murmured, opening his paper.

Gideon glanced sideways in irritation, decided to ignore him.

“You must be almost out of cash,” the man murmured, perusing the front page.

Gideon felt something touch his leg and glanced down to see the man proffering a fat roll of cash under the counter. Before Gideon could react, the man had slid it into Gideon’s jacket pocket, all the while reading his paper. Gideon raised his head, got a better look at the face.

Garza. Eli Glinn’s right-hand man at EES.

An unpleasant mixture of shock and irritation coursed over him. So much for his facility at staying below the radar.

“It’s about time!” he said, turning on the man, suddenly snarky in his embarrassment at being caught unawares. “I wondered when Glinn would be sending a messenger boy.”

Garza frowned, his previous unflappability fading slightly. “That’s how you say thank you?”

“Thank you? Obviously you people at EES knew a lot more about this situation than what you briefed me on. I feel like I’ve been hung out to dry.”

Garza took a sip of coffee, pushed the Danish away, rose, and placed a few dollars on the counter. “You’re doing okay—at least until now. If I were you, instead of complaining I’d be worried as hell that we were able to locate you. If we can find you, so can Nodding Crane.”

The man slipped back out into the night, leaving the paper unfolded on the counter, its headline displayed.

MURDER ON MOTT

Chinatown Resident’s Throat Ripped Out by Assailant

Below was a picture of Roger Marion.

42

The man known as Nodding Crane moved slowly, painfully along the sidewalk outside the diner. Crew was still in there, talking to the fat waitress. The man who had passed him money had come and gone. He wasn’t interested in that man. He was interested in Crew.

Coming to a halt next to the stoop of an abandoned brownstone, he eased himself onto it, placing the beer can wrapped in a greasy paper bag beside him, and lowered his head. A set of garbage cans, stacked in a row for morning pickup, cast a long shadow, further hiding his face. A group of noisy young people crossed the street at the corner of Avenue C and went on into the night, laughing and hooting. All became silent once again.

Right hand in the pocket of his old raincoat, he flexed his fingers, the razor-sharp picks clicking lightly against one another. He had been trained in the use of many exotic weapons—double sai, sweepers, flutes, walking canes, fire wheels, tiger forks, moonteeth—but the fingerpicks had been his own innovation. They were, in fact, genuine Dunlops he had modified, sharpened, and polished. As a boy in the training temple back in China, he had been immersed in American culture—movies, books, video games, music. Especially music, as music was the soul of a people. On his own volition, he had taken up bottleneck guitar and learned the tunes of Big Bill Broonzy, Blind Willie Johnson, and Skip James. “Hard Time Killing Floor Blues.” Now, that was real American music.

If I ever get off this killin’ floor

I’ll never get down this low no more

As he hummed the music under his breath, his fingers, hidden in his voluminous coat pocket, picked out the imaginary notes, the sharpened picks making a clicking sound not unlike knitting needles.

He saw a movement in the diner out of the corner of his eye and, while continuing to hum, shifted his attention. It was Crew. The man exited the diner, crossed the street—walking with that characteristic loping stride of his—and turned, coming along the sidewalk toward Nodding Crane, moving toward Avenue C. Keeping his head down, the low brim of his old cap hiding his face, Nodding Crane waited for Crew to arrive. His humming continued, the fingers clacked.

Crew passed by and Nodding Crane let him go on, smiling to himself at how easy it would have been. But there were reasons not to kill him now—excellent reasons. As the man reached Avenue C, he held out his hand for a cab, and one almost immediately stopped. Nodding Crane noted the hack number, went back to humming.

Half an hour later, he stood up, stretched, and shuffled down the street, removing his cell phone. He called the Taxi and Limousine Commission hotline, explained he had left a PDA in the cab he had flagged down on Avenue C and 13th, about three thirty AM, the ride ending at Grand Central Terminal. He waited while the cabbie was contacted. The driver had not seen the lost PDA; but there was confusion over which fare was which, since the trip record indicated that the fare in that hack number had not ended at Grand Central, but instead at Park Avenue and 50th—in front of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. Nodding Crane thanked the person, apologized for the confusion, and shut the phone.

Discarding the shapeless raincoat in one of the garbage cans, Nodding Crane walked over to Avenue C and caught his own cab.

“The Waldorf,” he said crisply as he settled in.

43

Gideon Crew tossed the thick roll of money onto the bed of his suite. Then he pulled out his cell and called Orchid.

“What the fuck do you want?”

Many derogations, animadversions, and apologies later, she agreed to the elaborate plan he described.

He hung up and went to the window, which faced Park Avenue, and looked carefully up and down the wide boulevard in front of the hotel. He couldn’t shake the feeling he was being followed, but that was probably due to Garza’s making him paranoid. He’d given the taxi driver special directions to make sure no one was following, and he couldn’t imagine that anyone had. So why did he feel like an ant under a magnifying glass?

He called his Pelican case up from the Waldorf baggage storage room, where he had deposited it before going off to Hong Kong. After laying out his kit, he sorted through the disguises and settled for the Death of a Salesman role—a quietly desperate middle-class suburban persona—assembled it, then stepped into it. Examining himself in the floor-length mirror on the closet door, he found it most satisfactory.

He checked his watch. A little after four. Still wearing his disguise, he exited the Waldorf through the back door and made his way east down 51st Street, where he spied Orchid loitering outside the vest-pocket Greenacre Park, as per his instructions.

“Excuse me, miss?” he said, approaching her.

She turned on him and said, in a voice as cutting as dry ice, “Get lost. I’m waiting for someone.”

“Yes, but you see that’s just the point, I am lost…”

She practically spat at him. “Beat it. Now. Or I’ll kick you so hard in the balls I’ll sterilize your whole family.”

Gideon laughed, pleased at the effectiveness of his deception. “It’s me. Gideon. Nice disguise, eh?”

She gasped, leaned closer. “God, that’s worse than before.” She dropped her cigarette and angrily ground it into nothing on the sidewalk. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, calling me up like that after the way you acted.”

“I’m staying at the Waldorf,” he said, hooking her arm and hauling her along the street. “Listen.” He pressed a wad of money into her hand. “I want you to book a room at the Waldorf for Mr. and Mrs. Tell. Go to the room, get into bed, turn off the lights, but leave the door unlocked. I’ll join you in thirty minutes.”

“Listen, you—”

But he released her and peeled off down 51st Street, walked into the Metropolitan Hotel, changed out of his disguise in an upper hallway, exited, then reentered the Waldorf as Gideon Crew. He went to his previous room, changed back into his disguise, showed up at the front desk, introduced himself as a Mr. Tell meeting his wife, moved through the empty corridors to the room Orchid had booked, eased open the door, shut and locked it.

She sat up in bed, the sheet falling partway off her nude body. “I’m not going to take much more of your crap, I can tell you that.”

He sat on the bed, took her face in his hands. “I know I’ve been a jerk, but bear with me just a little longer. Tomorrow we’re going to dress up as Mr. and Mrs. Middle Class and try to enroll our brilliant son in Throckmorton Academy. I guarantee you, it’ll be fun. And there’s some good money in it for you.”

She stared at him. “I don’t like the way you’re treating me. And I’m sure this isn’t more Method acting—that’s bullshit. I want to know what’s really going on.”

“I know you do, but we’ve got to get some sleep now, because we’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

She looked at him askance. “Sleep?” She put her arms around him and drew him down on to the bed. “Get rid of that stupid face paint and I’ll show you what kind of ‘sleep’ we’re going to be getting.”

44

Nodding Crane sat in front of Saint Bartholomew’s Church, strumming his Beard Road-O-Phonic with the case open in front of him, collecting small change. It was nine o’clock in the morning and most of the sidewalk was full of bankers and brokers on their way to work, rushing past without a second glance.

I’m looking funny in my eyes

He plucked the strings, singing in a low, rough voice, a voice he had practiced from years of listening to Bukka White. He felt calm after his near panic earlier that morning, when Crew had almost slipped away from him. That was some trick with the rooms and the sudden appearance of the woman. He had almost been fooled. Almost. If it hadn’t been for Crew’s characteristic loping walk, he would have been fooled.

And I believe I’m fixing to die

Crew had gone off with her, and he had decided not to follow them, knowing that they would return. Nodding Crane had learned long ago that it was dangerous and often counterproductive to obsessively follow your prey. And unnecessary: everyone lived by patterns, by loops and returns; better to learn the patterns and anticipate the returns than follow every useless footstep. The time to follow was when the pattern broke and the prey set off on a new path.

I’m looking funny in my eyes

The suits hustled by, bent on money matters. He began to resent that nobody was dropping money in his guitar case—these masters of the universe were passing him by without even a glance. And then, out of the blue, someone dropped in a twenty.

And I believe I’m fixing to die

That was better. America. What a wonderful country. Too bad it was doomed to fail.

45

Gideon Crew stepped out of the car and looked up at the admissions building of Throckmorton Academy. It loomed before them, a nineteenth-century Romanesque Revival structure of gray granite, rising from perfectly tended shrubbery, flower beds, and clipped lawns. A brass plaque screwed into the wall told them the structure was known as the SWITHIN COTTAGE, following the WASPish self-deprecating habit of calling gigantic and expensive houses “cottages.” It fairly exuded money, privilege, and smug superiority.

“This is really stupid,” said Orchid, standing in the parking lot, tugging down the jacket of her tacky orange pantsuit. “I don’t get it. We look like idiots. They’re going to toss us out on our asses.”

“Perhaps,” said Gideon, clutching a thick folder of papers that had taken him hours of sustained and careful labor to prepare. He smoothed down his checked pants and jacket, adjusted his polyester tie, and headed toward the front door.

“I don’t know why you dressed us like this,” Orchid whispered furiously. “We don’t fit in at all here.”

He took her arm reassuringly. “Just follow my lead. All will become clear, I promise.”

They entered a well-appointed waiting room, and the receptionist looked at them. “May I help you?” The tone was studiously neutral.

“Hello,” said Gideon heartily, approaching and shaking her surprised hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Crew. We’re here to enroll our son Tyler in the school.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

Gideon liked that whom. Here was someone punctilious with her grammar. He shuffled through his papers. “Mr. Van Rensselaer.” It was one of those old New York names and he mispronounced it badly.

She rose and disappeared into an inner sanctum. A moment later she emerged again. “Mr. Van Rensselaer will see you now,” she said, emphasizing the correct pronunciation.

The admissions officer was exactly as Gideon had hoped: tall, relaxed, friendly, dressed understatedly. The slightly longish hair and modish glasses indicated a man who, if not exactly open-minded, thought of himself as tolerant and moderate.

Perfect.

Van Rensselaer greeted them warmly, his eyes betraying only momentary alarm as he professionally covered up his reaction to their dress and manner.

“Thank you so much for meeting with us,” said Gideon, after the introductions. “We’d like to enroll our son, Tyler, in the second grade. He’s a very special boy.”

“Of course. Naturally, we have a fairly comprehensive process here at Throckmorton Academy, involving interviews with the parents and child, teacher references, and a battery of age-appropriate testing. We have many more applicants than we can accept, unfortunately. And I am afraid to say, as I believe I explained on the telephone, there are currently no openings in the second grade.”

“But Tyler is special.”

Van Rensselaer had not seated himself. “So as I mentioned, while we’re glad to give you a quick tour of the campus, it would be unfair to take up more of your valuable time without any hope of admission for your son. If something opens up, of course, we’ll be in touch. Now, we’d be glad to arrange that tour.”

“Thank you. But I just thought I would leave this folder of Tyler’s work—” Gideon brandished the folder of papers toward Van Rensselaer, who eyed it with the faintest whiff of distaste.

“That won’t be necessary at this time.”

“At least let me leave you the symphony.”

“The…excuse me?”

“The symphony. Tyler composed a symphony.”

A long silence. “How old did you say Tyler was?”

“Seven.”

“And he had help composing this…symphony?”

“Oh heavens, no!” said Orchid, suddenly, her raspy cigarette-cured voice echoing in the hushed confines of the office. “What do we know about classical music!” A laugh followed.

Suppressing a smile, Gideon slid out the sheet music. After a moment, Van Rensselaer took it.

“He used GarageBand,” said Gideon. “It sounds great, lots of trumpets. The CD is taped there, too. You should listen to it.”

Van Rensselaer began flipping through the printed-out symphony. “Surely someone helped him do this.”

“No one. Really. We didn’t even know he was doing it.”

“Um, neither of you is musical?”

“I like Lady Gaga,” said Orchid, with a nervous laugh.

“Where does…Tyler get his musical interest?”

“No idea. He was adopted, you know, from Korea.”

“Korea,” Van Rensselaer repeated.

“Sure. Some of our friends were adopting kids from Asia and so we thought it would be cool, since, well—we can’t have children. And it was something we could have in common with them, you know, talk about. But the symphony isn’t the only thing. Here are some of his drawings. You can keep them—they’re copies.”

He slid out the drawings. It was amazing what you could find on the web. He’d added a little signature to the bottom of each one, TYLER CREW, before copying them.

Van Rensselaer took the drawings and looked at them.

“That’s our dog. Tyler loves the dog. And that’s some old church he found in a book.”

“Chartres,” murmured Van Rensselaer.

“What?” It had been devilishly difficult finding the right drawings from the vast selection available online; they had to combine childishness with artistic genius in just the right way.

“These are amazing,” said Van Rensselaer softly, paging through them.

“Tyler is special,” repeated Orchid. “He’s already smarter than I am.” She put a Chiclet in her mouth and began to chew. “Gum?”

Van Rensselaer didn’t answer. He was absorbed in the drawings.

“I gotta tell you,” said Gideon, “Tyler’s also just an ordinary kid. He’s not one of those stuck-up types. He loves to watch Family Guy with us, he laughs so hard. He especially liked the episode where Peter gets drunk and drops trou in the front yard, just as the cops are driving by.”

Orchid burst into a peal of laughter. “That one was the best.”

“Family Guy?” A look of horror bloomed on Van Rensselaer’s face.

“Anyway, in this folder are a bunch of Tyler’s sonnets, more drawings, and a bunch more musical compositions.”

“All done by himself?”

“I helped him with the cartoons,” said Gideon proudly. “But, well, we don’t know much about music, literature, or drawing. I own a sports bar, see. In Yonkers.”

Van Rensselaer looked from him to Orchid.

“He’s also good at mathematics, I don’t know how the heck he learned the stuff. Just like when he taught himself to read when he was two and a half. Also, I’ve got some letters from his teachers in there.” He pawed through the folder and extracted a couple of letters he had carefully composed and printed on faked school letterhead. “There’s one from his math tutor—he’s way ahead of his grade—and another from the principal.” The letters waxed eloquent about Tyler’s transcendental genius and some made carefully veiled allusions to his home environment.

“Oh, and here are his test results. Somebody gave him an IQ test.”

Van Rensselaer examined the results. His face became very still, almost blank, and the paper shook slightly. “I think…” he began slowly. “Under the circumstances…we may be able to find a place for Tyler here at Throckmorton. Of course, we’d still have to meet him and go through the application process.”

“Wonderful!” cried Orchid, clapping her hands. She was really getting into it.

“Please,” Van Rensselaer said, “have a seat.”

“Just a minute,” said Gideon as he sat down. “There are a few things I want to make sure of. First of all, will there be other Asian students in his class? I don’t want him to feel left out.”

“Absolutely,” said Van Rensselaer briskly, switching into full salesmanship mode.

“Like, how many? Not just in the second grade, but in the elementary school. I want to know numbers.”

“Let me get the class lists.” Van Rensselaer called in the receptionist, issued the request. She returned a moment later with a piece of paper. The admissions officer glanced through it, slid it across his desk. “She’s checked the ones of Asian descent.”

Gideon took the paper.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you keep that. We are naturally very protective of our families’ privacy.”

“Oh, sure, sure.” He examined it. Fifteen students. That was his universe. He committed the names to memory.

“I also heard,” he said sternly, laying down the paper, “that there was a serious outbreak of flu on campus.”

“Flu? I don’t think so.”

“That’s what I heard. In fact, I heard that on June seventh, just before graduation, more than three-quarters of the elementary school was out sick.”

“I hardly think that’s possible.” Van Rensselaer called the receptionist back in. “Get me the attendance records for the lower school on June seventh.”

“Very well.”

“How about some coffee?” asked Gideon, eyeing a pot in the corner.

“What? Oh, please excuse me! I should have offered it to you earlier. How negligent.”

“No problem, I’ll take it with extra cream and three sugars.”

“Extra cream and four sugars for me,” said Orchid.

Van Rensselaer rose and fumbled with the coffee himself. As he did so, the receptionist came back. She laid the document on the desk just as Van Rensselaer returned with the coffee. Gideon reached for it as he rose from his chair, and the combined movement somehow caused him to knock the cups and spill coffee all over Van Rensselaer’s desk.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he cried. “What a klutz I am!” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he began mopping up the liquid, wiping the papers, fussing about, shoving everything this way and that.

They all joined in cleaning up the mess, the receptionist returning with paper towels.

“So sorry,” repeated Gideon. “So sorry.”

“No problem,” said Van Rensselaer, his voice tight, surveying the mess of damp, stained papers. “It could happen to anyone.” He brightened up again immediately. “We’d love to see Tyler as soon as possible. Shall we schedule the interview now?”

“I’ll call you,” said Gideon. “Keep the file. We gotta run.”

A few minutes later they were out in the car, driving through the wrought-iron gates. Orchid was almost helpless with laughter. “Jeez, you’re funny, you know that? I couldn’t believe the look on that guy’s face. He thought we were just awful people. Awful. I know all about guys like that—they always want blow jobs, ’cause their wives don’t like to get a—”

“Right, right,” said Gideon, hoping to head the conversation in another direction. “He wanted to save poor Tyler from us, that much was obvious.”

“So what’s the point? Why the charade? And don’t give me any more shit about Method acting.”

The class lists and June 7 attendance records were now safely in Gideon’s jacket pocket, and they would show exactly which Asian child was absent on the day after Wu’s plane landed at JFK. Because, Gideon expected, a child in the international terminal waiting area at JFK after midnight would not likely be attending school the next day.

“Method acting,” said Gideon Crew. “On my word of honor, it’s all about Method acting. And you’re a star.”

46

I just wish you’d tell me what the hell’s really going on!” Orchid said as they rounded the corner of 51st and Park. Gideon walked fast. He’d been avoiding her questions all the way back, trying to focus on his next move. And she was getting increasingly pissed at his evasions.

She struggled to keep up. “Damn it, why won’t you talk to me?”

Gideon sighed. “Because I’m tired of lying to people. Especially you.”

“So tell me the truth, then!”

“It isn’t safe.” They walked past the iron gates of Saint Bart’s park and Gideon heard a brief strain of old Blues music from a street musician. He suddenly halted and listened. The faint strains of the guitar floated to him over the sounds of midday traffic.

He placed a hand on her arm. “Wait.”

“You can’t keep me in the dark—”

He gave her arm a light warning squeeze and she stopped talking. “Just be cool,” he murmured. “Don’t react.”

He listened to the faint music, the raspy singing.

In my time of dyin’

Don’t want nobody to mourn

“What is it?” Orchid whispered.

Gideon answered with more gentle pressure. He turned and pretended to answer his cell phone, giving them an excuse to be standing there, listening.

All I want for you to do

Is to take my body home.

Gideon recognized it as a Blind Willie tune, “In My Time of Dyin’.” It aroused in him a faint sensation of déjà vu, and he searched his mind for where he had recently heard that same bottleneck guitar.

Bottleneck guitar.

It was on Avenue C. It wasn’t a guitar, but a bum humming that same old Blues tune. When he was leaving the diner. He pictured the dark street and he remembered a bum sitting on a stoop, humming—just humming.

Well, well, well so I can die easy

Well, Well, Well

Well, Well, Well so I can die easy

Now he listened with care. The guy was good. More than good. Not flashy, not technical, but playing easy and slow, as a real Delta Blues tune should be played. But as Gideon listened, he realized that some of the lyrics were different from the version he knew best; this was another version, one he wasn’t as familiar with.

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up my dyin’ bed.

The revelation struck him hard. Disguising his surprise, he shut his phone as if the call were over and urged Orchid forward by the arm, toward the awning of the Waldorf. As soon as they were inside he quickened his pace, propelling her through the lobby, past the giant urn of flowers, toward Peacock Alley.

“Hey! What the hell?”

They swept past the maître d’, brushing aside his proffered menus, walked through the restaurant to the back, and pushed through the double doors into the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” The voice of the maître d’ was drowned out by the clatter of pots and shouts. “Sir, you can’t—”

But Gideon was already moving fast toward the rear of the kitchen. He pushed through another set of double doors into a long hallway lined with giant walk-in refrigerators.

“Come back here!” came the maître d’s distant voice. “Someone call security!”

Gideon took a sharp turn, blew through a third set of doors, and ended up in an inner receiving bay. Continuing on, a protesting Orchid following in his wake, he trotted through the bay and onto the outside receiving dock, clambered down the steps, and ran down a short alley to 50th Street, still hustling Orchid along. He swiftly crossed the street through blaring traffic, trotted two blocks uptown, entered the Four Seasons Restaurant, ran up the stairs to the upper level of the Pool Room, and entered the kitchen.

“Again?”

Racing through the kitchen to more protests and shouts, they emerged onto Lexington Avenue opposite the 51st Street subway entrance. At Gideon’s urging, they ran across the street and jogged down the stairs. He swiped his card through the turnstile twice, and they emerged onto the platform just as an uptown train was pulling in. Orchid in tow, Gideon boarded the train. The doors closed.

“What the hell?” Orchid said, gasping for breath.

Gideon sank back into a seat, thinking fast. He’d heard the same voice humming and singing on Avenue C. And today, the man had been playing a very rare version of a Blind Willie tune—a version that had only been released on vinyl in Europe and the Far East.

If we can find you, Garza had said, so can Nodding Crane. And now it seemed he had.

Gideon exhaled slowly, looked carefully around the car. Surely it was impossible that Nodding Crane had followed them onto the uptown train.

“I’m sorry.” He took her hand, still recovering his breath.

“I’ve just about had it with your shenanigans,” said Orchid, yelling.

“I know. I know.” He patted her hand. “I’ve been really unfair to you. Look, Orchid: I’ve dragged you into something that’s a lot more dangerous than I realized. I’ve been a real idiot. I need you to go back to your apartment and lie low—I’ll contact you later when all this blows over.”

“No way! You’re not gonna leave me again!”

Now she was really shouting, turning heads all the way down the car.

“I promise I’ll call you. I promise.”

“I won’t be treated like shit!”

“Please, Orchid. I really like you, I really do. That’s why I can’t drag you into this trouble.” He looked at her carefully. “I will call you.”

“Why don’t you just say it?” she cried, the tears suddenly springing into her eyes and rolling down her face. “You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you? You think I can’t see that? Why don’t you let me help you? Why do you keep pushing me away?”

He didn’t have the heart to deny it. “Yes, I’m in trouble, but you can’t help. Just go back to your place. I’ll come back for you, I promise. It’ll be over soon, one way or another. Look—I’ve got to go.”

“No!” She clutched at him like a drowning woman.

This was futile. He needed to get away from her—for her own safety. The subway rolled into 59th Street, halted with a groan, and the doors slid open. At the last moment, making a sudden decision, Gideon twisted free and ran out. He stopped and turned to apologize again, but the doors slammed shut, and he had a glimpse of her devastated face through the window as the train pulled out of the station.

“I promise I’ll call you!” he cried, but it was too late and the train was gone.

47

Gideon drove moodily through the midafternoon Jersey traffic. He’d crossed over through the Holland Tunnel, then pointed the rented Chevy northward through the old, tired urban tangle, one town blending seamlessly with another: Kearny, North Arlington, Rutherford, Lodi. The streets all looked the same—narrow, busy, dense with three- and four-story brick buildings, their shopfronts dingy, heavy clusters of telephone wires hanging claustrophobically overhead. Now and then, through the urban accretion, he could catch glimpses of what had once been a downtown: the marquee of a movie theater, now disused; the plate-glass window of an erstwhile soda joint. Fifty or sixty years ago, these places had been separate little towns, bright and sparkling, full of bobby soxers and guys with derbies and ducktails. Now they were just ghostly pentimentos beneath an endless procession of salumerias, mercados, discount stores, and cell phone shops.

He crossed into Bergen County, passing through another half a dozen sad-looking towns. There were much faster ways to reach his destination, of course, but Gideon wanted to lose himself for a while in a mindless act such as driving. He was full of uncomfortable and unwelcome emotions: agitation at discovering Nodding Crane, shame and embarrassment at his treatment of Orchid. He told himself it was for her own good, for her protection; that she was better off not getting involved with a man who had a year to live. It didn’t make him feel any better. He had used her, used her cynically.

As he drove farther north, toward the New York State line, the cramped streets grew broader and leafier, and the traffic eased. Residences became grander and farther apart. He glanced down at the sheet of paper he’d placed on the passenger seat. Biyu Liang, Bergen Dafa Center, Old Tappan, he’d scrawled on it. With the attendance records unwittingly supplied by Van Rensselaer, it had been a trivial undertaking to single out the Asian boy who’d been at JFK—Jie Liang—and from there to learn the identity of his mother. He didn’t know what a Dafa Center was, but that was the woman’s place of employment—and his destination.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into what to his surprise appeared to be an old estate: not huge, but well manicured, a large puddingstone mansion, a separate garage, and an adjoining gatehouse, the whole now converted into a small campus of sorts. A sign set back from the road read BERGEN DAFA CENTER.

Gideon parked his car in the lot beside the main building and trotted up the steps to the twin doors, decorated with wrought-iron filigree. He stepped through into an ornate front hall that had been converted into a reception area. A tasteful sign on one wall read: FALUN GONG EXERCISES 3–5 WEEKDAYS, TEACHINGS WEEKNIGHTS 7–10. It was flanked by other signs covered with symbols and Chinese ideographs.

A young Asian woman was seated behind a desk. She smiled as he approached.

“May I help you?” she asked in unaccented English.

Gideon smiled back. “I’d like to speak with Biyu Liang, please.”

“She’s conducting a session at the moment,” the woman said, extending her hand toward an open door through which Gideon could hear a mixture of music and speech.

“Thank you, I’ll wait for her to finish.”

“Feel free to observe.”

Gideon stepped past her and into a spacious room of Zen-like simplicity. A woman was leading a group of people in a series of slow exercises, all of them moving gently in unison to the hypnotic sound of five-tone music, tinkling bells, and percussion. The woman was apparently giving instructions in melodious Mandarin. He looked at her carefully. She was younger than the woman in the airport had been, but resembled her enough that he concluded the woman in the video had probably been the child’s grandmother.

Gideon waited for the session to end. As he did so, he was increasingly struck by what he was seeing; there was something ineffable in the movements, something beautiful, almost universal. Falun Gong, he mused. He had heard of it, vaguely, and recalled it was some form of Buddhist practice from China. Clearly, he needed to learn more.

The session continued for another ten minutes. As the group dispersed, chatting quietly, Gideon remained standing at the entrance, waiting. The woman who had been leading the session noticed him and came over. She was small with what could only be described as a round, shining face.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes.” Gideon gave her a big smile. “My name’s Gideon Crew, and my son, Tyler, is entering Throckmorton Academy in the fall—we’ve just moved here from New Mexico. He’s going to be in your son Jie’s class.”

“How nice,” she said, smiling. “Welcome.” They shook hands and she introduced herself.

“He’s adopted,” Gideon continued, “from Korea. We just wanted to make sure he’d feel at home—he’s still having some difficulty with English—which is why my wife and I were pleased to learn there would be other Asian children in the class. It’s hard to come into a new school in a new place. That’s why I was hoping to meet you and a few of the other parents.”

“I’ll talk to Jie about your boy. Jie’s very kind and I know he’ll make a special effort to be friends with your son right away.”

Gideon felt embarrassed. “Thank you, I know that will make a real difference.” He moved to leave but then, as if on impulse, he turned back. “I’m sorry if this is a bother. I couldn’t help but watch what was going on here while I was waiting to speak with you. I was struck by it, the music, the movements. What is it, exactly?”

Her face lit up. “We are practitioners of Falun Gong—or, more properly, Falun Dafa.”

“I’m very curious, and…well, I thought it was quite beautiful. What’s it for? Physical conditioning?”

“That’s only a small part. It’s a total system of mind and body cultivation, a way to recapture your original, true self.”

“Is it a religion?”

“Oh no. It’s a new form of science. Although it does involve Buddhist and Taoist principles. You might call it a spiritual and mental path, as opposed to a religion.”

“I’d like to learn more.”

She responded warmly, with a well-rehearsed description. “Dafa practitioners are guided by universal principles: truthfulness, compassion, and restraint. We strive continuously to harmonize ourselves with these, through a series of five simple exercises and meditation. Over time, the exercises will transform your body and mind and connect you to the deepest and most profound truths of the universe—and in this way you eventually find the path of return to your true self.”

This was clearly a topic dear to her heart. But in an odd way, Gideon found himself genuinely impressed. There might actually be something to this; he had felt it just listening and watching the movements. “Is it open to anyone?”

“Of course. We welcome everyone. As you saw, we have all kinds of practitioners, from every walk of life and background—in fact, here most of our practitioners are Westerners. Would you like to join a session?”

“I would. Is it expensive?”

She laughed. “You can come, listen, do the exercises as long as you like. Most of our English-language sessions are in the evenings. If in the future you feel it is helping you, then of course we would welcome support for the center. But there are no fees.”

“Does it originate in China?”

At this, the woman hesitated “It’s connected to ancient Chinese traditions and beliefs. But it’s been suppressed in China.”

This would be an extremely interesting thread to follow up on. But right now he had to find the older woman—the grandmother. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he said. “I’ll certainly join a session. Now, getting back to the school: they mentioned Jie had a grandmother he’s very close to.”

“That might be my mother. She’s the founder of the Bergen Dafa Center.”

“Ah. May I meet her?”

Even as he asked it, he realized he had pushed a little too far. Her face lost a bit of its openness. “I’m sorry, she’s working on other Dafa business and is no longer involved on a daily basis with the center.” She paused. “If I may ask, why would you want to meet her?”

Gideon smiled. “Since they’re so close…and she takes him to school…well, I just thought it would be good to meet. But of course it’s not at all necessary…”

Now he realized he had made another mistake. The woman’s expression grew a little chilly. “She never takes him to Throckmorton. I’m surprised the school even knows of her.” A pause. “I wonder how you know of her?”

Sink me, Gideon thought ruefully. He should have shut up while he was ahead. “They mentioned her at the school…Perhaps Jie’s talked about her?”

Her face softened just a bit. “Yes. I imagine he would.”

“I don’t want to take up your time any longer,” said Gideon, backing off and giving her an innocent smile. “You’ve been most kind.”

Mollified, she fetched him a brochure. “Here’s the schedule of introductory sessions. I hope to see you soon. And I’ll tell Jie about your son Tyler. Maybe we can have him over for a playdate before school begins in the fall.”

“That would be most kind,” said Gideon, with a final farewell smile.

48

Orchid stepped out of the 51st Street deli and marched quickly down the sidewalk toward Park Avenue, opening the pack of cigarettes she’d just purchased and tossing the wrapper into the trash. Instead of going back to her apartment, she’d just walked the streets, her mind whirling. She was furious and determined. Gideon was just awful, a real bastard, but at the same time he was in desperate trouble. She realized that now. He needed help—and she would help him. She would save him from whatever was chasing him, tormenting him, driving him to do all these bizarre things.

But how? How could she help?

Swinging around the corner, she charged up Park Avenue. The uniformed doorman at the Waldorf opened the door for her as she swept in. She paused in the stupendous lobby, breathing hard. Finally getting herself under control, she went up to the reception desk and used the fake names they had registered under. “Has Mr. Tell returned? I’m Mrs. Tell.”

“I’ll ring the room.” The receptionist placed the call, but no one answered.

“I’ll wait in the lobby for him,” she said. He’d have to be back sometime—all his stuff was still here. She opened the pack of cigarettes and shook one out, stuck it between her lips.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Tell, we don’t allow smoking in the lobby.”

“I know, I know, I’m going outside.” She lit the cigarette on the way out, just to spite them. On the sidewalk in front of the hotel she paced back and forth, smoking furiously. When the cigarette was done she threw the butt on the sidewalk in front of the doorman, fished another out of her purse, and lit it. She could hear the faint sound of guitar music from that bum in front of Saint Bart’s. To kill time, she crossed the street to listen.

The man, dressed in a thin shapeless trench coat, strummed on his guitar and sang. He was sitting cross-legged, plucking the strings with his fingerpicks. His case lay open beside him, and a number of crumpled bills lay within it.

Meet me Jesus meet me

Meet me in the middle of the air

If these wings should fail me Lord

Won’t you meet me with another pair

This guy was pretty damn good. She couldn’t see his face—it was bowed over his old guitar and he wore a brown fedora—but she could hear his voice, kind of gravelly, full of sorrow and the hard life. She could identify with that. It made her feel sad and happy at the same time. On impulse, she reached into her bag, pulled out a dollar bill, dropped it in the case.

He nodded, not interrupting his music.

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up

Jesus gonna make up my dyin’ bed

The last mournful chord sounded and the song was over. He laid the guitar aside and raised his head.

She was surprised to see he was Asian, and young, quite handsome, his face lacking the usual signs of alcoholism or drug addiction, his eyes clear and deep. In fact, despite the shabby outfit, her own street instincts told her he wasn’t a street person at all—probably a serious musician. The raggedy clothes and filthy old fedora were for show.

“Hey, you’re pretty good, you know that?” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Where’d you learn to play like that?”

“I’m a disciple of the Blues,” he said. “I live the Blues.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I feel that way myself.”

He gazed at her until she began to flush. He then began to collect the pile of money from his guitar case, stuffed it in his pocket, and put away his guitar. “Done for the day,” he said. “I’m going to grab a cup of tea at the Starbucks around the corner. Would you care to accompany me?”

Would you care to accompany me? This guy was a student at Juilliard, probably, out here paying his dues, living the life. Yes, that had to be it. His formal way of asking pleased her, and she liked his semi-undercover shtick. Part of her was still mad at Gideon. She hoped he would see them together; that would teach him a lesson.

“Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

49

Nodding Crane sat at the little table, sipping green tea and listening to the woman talk. This opportunity had been dropped right in his lap, and he knew exactly how to exploit it, to flush Crew out, to destabilize him, to throw him back on the defensive.

A marvelous opportunity, actually.

“You went by earlier today,” he said. “I noticed you immediately.”

“Oh well, yes, I did.”

“You were with a man—your husband?”

She laughed. “He’s just a friend.” She leaned forward. “And you. You’re no street person—am I right?”

Nodding Crane remained very still.

“You don’t fool me.” She winked. “Although, I must say, it’s a pretty good act.”

He sipped his tea as if nothing had happened. Inside, he was deeply perturbed. “A friend? Your boyfriend?”

“Well, not really. He’s kind of a weird guy, actually.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Said he was an actor, a producer. He gets dressed up in wild costumes, goes out and pretends to be someone else, drags me along. Totally crazy. He said he was a Method actor but I think he’s in some kind of trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“I wish I knew! I’d like to help him, but he won’t let me. He dragged me up to Riverdale to this really tony private school. We pretended to be parents of some genius kid and he stole some papers from the school—God only knows why. And we did this crazy room switch at the Waldorf in the middle of the night.”

“How strange.”

“Yeah, and then we went to visit this friend of his in the hospital and it turned out the guy had died.”

Nodding Crane sipped his tea. “Sounds to me like he might be involved in some sort of illegal activity.”

“I don’t know. He seems pretty honest. I just can’t figure it out.”

“Where’s he now?”

The girl shrugged. “He, like, abandoned me on the subway, just jumped out, said he’d call me later. He’ll be back. All our stuff is in the room.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. He carries around a suitcase full of disguises. And one of those hard cases, all locked up. No idea what’s in that one, he guards it pretty carefully.”

“A hard case? In the room?”

“Hard molded plastic. He keeps it locked up in the Waldorf’s baggage room.”

She chattered on, oblivious. When Nodding Crane had gotten out of her all the important information he needed, he brought the subject back to himself. “You implied you thought I was in disguise. What did you mean?”

“Come on. Look at you.” She laughed, teasing him. “I know who you really are.”

He rose and checked his watch. “It’s almost time for vespers at Saint Bart’s.”

“What? You’re going to church?”

“I go to hear the music—I love the Gregorian chants.”

“Oh.”

“Would you care to come with me?”

Orchid hesitated. “Well…sure. But don’t think this is a date.”

“Of course not. I would enjoy your company. As a friend.”

“All right, why not?”

A moment later they had entered the church. The doors were unlocked but the sanctuary was empty and, in the gathering twilight outside, it was dark.

“Where’s the music?” she asked. “Nobody’s here.”

“We’re a little early,” said Nodding Crane. He took her arm and gently led her down the aisle into the darkest of the choir stalls near the front. “We can get a good seat here.”

“Okay.” There was a doubtful sound in her voice.

Nodding Crane had kept his right hand buried in his coat pocket. The picks were still on his fingers. As they entered the shadowy chancel, he slipped his hand from the pocket.

“I can hear your fingerpicks clicking away,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m always hearing music. I’m always hearing the Blues.” He raised his hand, his fingers waving before her face, the picks gleaming faintly in the dim light, and began to sing ever so softly.

In my time of dyin’

Don’t want nobody to mourn

All I want for you to do

Is to take my body home

50

Gideon left the center, but instead of returning to his car he strolled across the campus lawn toward the gatehouse of the old estate, now clearly a small private residence. Some sixth sense told him it was the house of an orderly old woman—with its neat brick walkway, the tiny flower beds flanking the door, the lace curtains and unusual ornaments visible through the windows.

He approached the door as nonchalantly as possible, but even before he reached it two Asian men in dark tracksuits appeared from nowhere.

“May we help you?” one asked as they stepped in front of him. The tone was polite, but they were careful to block his way.

Gideon didn’t even know the name of the grandmother. “I’m here to see the mother of Biyu Liang.”

“I’m sorry—is Madame Chung expecting you?”

He was gratified to see, at least, that he’d picked the right house. “No, but I’m the father of a boy starting at Throckmorton Academy this fall—”

They didn’t even let him finish. In the politest way possible, but without any ambiguity, they approached him and, taking him by the arms, began to escort him away. “Come with us.”

“Yes, but her grandson Jie will be in my son’s class—”

“You will come with us.”

As they started moving away, Gideon noticed that he was being taken, not to his car, but toward a small metal door in the side of the mansion. An unpleasant memory flashed through his head: waking up in a Hong Kong hotel, his bed surrounded by Chinese agents.

“Hey, wait a second—” He struggled, dug his heels into the ground. The two men stopped, tightened their grip, then began dragging him toward the door.

A voice sounded from the small house. The two stopped. Gideon turned to see an elderly Chinese woman on the steps of the gatehouse, gesturing at the guards with a withered hand. She said something in Mandarin.

After a moment, the guards reluctantly loosened their grasp. First one took a step away, then the other.

“Come in,” said the old woman, gesturing. “Come in, now.”

Gideon glanced from the guards to the woman, and wasted no time in complying. She ushered him inside, leading him into the parlor.

“Please. Sit down. Tea?”

“Yes, please,” said Gideon, rubbing his arms where the guards had held him.

A servant appeared in the door. Madame Chung spoke to him briefly, and he withdrew once again.

“Forgive my guardians,” she said. “Life is rather dangerous for me right now.”

“Why is that?” Gideon asked.

The woman merely smiled in reply.

The servant returned with a small, cast-iron teapot and two diminutive round china cups. As she poured out the tea, Gideon took the opportunity to scrutinize her. She was indeed the old woman in the security video—he felt a kind of awe in her presence, thinking of the long and strange journey of discovery that had brought him to this place. And yet, in person, she seemed very different. There was a kind of life energy that the grainy airport video had been unable to capture. He didn’t think he had ever met a livelier or more vigorous elderly person in his life. She was like a bright-eyed bird, alert, quick, joyful.

She handed him one of the cups, then—settling in the chair opposite him—she folded her hands on her knees and looked at him so intently, he almost blushed. “I see you have something you want to ask me,” she said.

Gideon didn’t answer right away. His mind started to race. He had worked up several stories, of course, several possible phony scenarios, for extracting the information from her. But sitting opposite Madame Chung like this, now, face-to-face, he realized that she was not one to be taken in. By anything. All his careful constructs, his machinations, his ploys and stratagems and cons were—quite suddenly—emasculated. He was strangely afraid; he didn’t know what to say. He frantically cast about for a better story, a better concatenation of lies and half-truths to tell her, realizing even as he did so that it was a hopeless effort.

“Just tell me the truth,” she said, with a smile, as if reading his mind.

“I…” He couldn’t go on. If he told her the truth, all would be lost. And now he did blush, coloring in confusion.

“Let me ask you some questions, then.”

“Yes, thank you,” he said with enormous relief.

“Your name?”

“Gideon Crew.”

“Where are you from and what do you do?”

He hesitated, again casting about for a suitable lie, but for perhaps the first time in his life he came up blank. “I live in New Mexico and work at Los Alamos National Lab.”

“Your place of birth?”

“Claremont, California.”

“And your parents?”

“Melvin and Doris Crew. Both gone.”

“And your reason for being here?”

“My son Tyler will be in Jie’s class at Throckmorton this fall—”

She folded her hands. “I’m sorry,” she gently interrupted, peering at him with her bright black eyes. “I think you’re a professional liar,” she said. “And you’ve just run out of lies. That’s what I think.”

He had no answer.

“So, as I said before, why not try the truth for a change? You might just get what you want.”

He felt like he’d been backed into a corner by this old woman. There was no way to turn, he was unable to escape. How had this happened?

She waited, hands folded, smiling.

What the hell. “I’m a…a sort of special operative,” he said.

Her carefully painted eyebrows went up.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He could latch on to nothing save the truth, and in an odd way he felt relieved. “My assignment is to find out what Mark Wu was bringing into this country and to get it.”

“Mark Wu. Yes, that makes sense. Who do you work for?”

“I work for the United States. Indirectly.”

“And where do I fit in?” the old woman asked.

“You gave something to Mark Wu at the airport, just before he got into a car and was chased down and killed. I want to know what you gave him. Beyond that, I’d like to know if he really was carrying plans for a new weapon, what that weapon is, and where those plans are now.”

She nodded very slowly. She took a sip of tea, replaced the cup. “Are you left-handed or right-handed?”

Gideon frowned. “Left-handed.”

She nodded again, as if this explained quite a bit. “Please extend your left hand.”

After a moment, Gideon complied. The woman took it gently with her right. For a moment, Gideon was aware only of the feel of her dry, withered skin against his. Then he almost cried out in surprise and dismay. Her hand seemed to be burning his own.

He jerked in his chair, and she released her grip.

“I will try to answer all your questions,” she said, hands once again folded on her knees. “Even though you are a professional liar, that is evidently part of your job. I see—I sense—that you are at heart a good person. And I think that by helping you, we can help ourselves.”

She took another sip of tea.

“Mark Wu was a scientist working on a secret project in China. He was also a devotee of Falun Dafa.” She nodded slowly, several times, letting the silence build. “As you may or may not know, Falun Dafa has been brutally suppressed in China. For this reason, Dafa has had to go underground in China. Deep underground.”

“Why have the Chinese done this?”

“Because we pose a threat to their monopoly on power. China has a long history of empires being brought down by charismatic spiritual movements. They are right to be afraid. Because Dafa not only challenges their assumptions about communism and totalitarian rule—but also challenges their new notions about the value of materialism and unbridled capitalism.”

“I see.” And Gideon did in fact see: here would be a prime motive for Wu’s defection. But then, what of the CIA honey trap?

“Because of the persecution, Dafa adherents in China must practice underground, in secret. But we remain linked with our Chinese brethren. We are all in touch with one another. Dafa requires a communal spirit. The government tried to block our websites and silence us—but they failed.”

“Is this why you said you’re in danger?”

“It is part of the reason.” She smiled. “You’re not drinking your tea.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Gideon raised the cup, took a gulp.

“Many Dafa adherents are scientists and computer engineers. We developed a powerful software program called Freegate. Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

“It rings a bell.”

“We distributed it worldwide. It enables internet users from mainland China—and other countries—to view websites blocked by their governments. And it allows users to penetrate those firewalls certain governments use to block websites and social networking sites.”

Listening, Gideon took a more careful sip, found it excellent.

“Freegate servers disguise true IP addresses, so people can roam freely online. Right here at the Bergen Dafa Center, we have a massive Freegate server cluster. There are other locations across the world.”

Gideon finished his tea. “What does this have to do with Mark Wu?”

“Everything. You see, Mark Wu was bringing us a secret from China. A huge, huge secret.”

“Us? You mean, Falun Gong?”

She nodded. “It was all in place. He was going to pass it to us, and we were going to put it on our Freegate servers. We were going to broadcast this secret to the entire world.”

Gideon swallowed. “So. What is this huge secret?”

She smiled again. “We don’t know.”

“What do you mean? How could you not know? I don’t believe you.” The words tumbled out before he could stop himself.

Madame Chung let this pass. “Wu couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell us. Our job was to disseminate the information. That’s all.”

“And it was a super-weapon?”

“Perhaps. But I doubt it.”

Gideon stared at her. “Why?”

“Because that isn’t quite how Wu described it. He said it was a new technology that would allow China to conquer the world—to rule the world, I think he said. But we didn’t get the impression it was necessarily dangerous. Besides, I doubt he would have wanted the plans for a new weapon to be broadcast everywhere—that would put the information into the hands of terrorists.” She paused. “How unfortunate they murdered him first.”

“If he had the plans with him, where are they now?”

“We don’t know that, either. He was very secretive.”

“Surely he must have indicated to you where and when he’d pass you the plans.”

“We took the precaution of choosing which person should take possession. One of our technical contacts, Roger Marion, was to pick them up at a hotel room. We passed him Roger’s name when he arrived at the airport.” She paused, as if recollecting. “During the negotiation process, Wu did say something odd. He said he would need a few moments in his room to extract the information.”

“Extract? I don’t understand.”

“He used the Chinese phrase cai jian, which means ‘to extract or cut out.’ I had the impression the information was buried in something and that it had to be removed.”

Immediately Gideon thought back to the dirty X-rays. Maybe Wu had placed the information inside his body. “Wu also had a list of numbers that he’d memorized. What were those?”

She looked at him. “How do you know about the list of numbers?”

For a moment, Gideon held his breath. “Because I followed him from the airport. I saw his cab get rammed by the SUV. I dragged him free. He thought I was Roger Marion, he told me the numbers. I tried to save him. I failed.”

There was a lengthy silence. Finally, the old woman spoke again.

“We don’t know what the numbers mean, either. All he told us was the numbers had to be combined with the thing he was bringing to us. The two had to be put together for the secret to be complete. One without the other wouldn’t work—both were necessary. It was his way of protecting the secret. He was to give them both to Roger.”

“And you did all this for Wu—just on the basis of his assurances, without knowing what it was?

“Dr. Wu was a very advanced Dafa practitioner. His judgment was completely sound.”

He was close—very close, maddeningly close. “How did he describe this secret information? Was it a set of plans, a microchip—what?”

“He referred to it as an object. A thing.”

“Thing?”

“He used the word wù, which means ‘thing, object, solid matter.’ It’s also the Chinese word for ‘physics.’ Not the same word as his name, by the way. It’s pronounced wù, with the lower tone.”

Again Gideon’s thoughts returned to the X-rays of Wu’s lower body. They showed his crushed legs full of bits and pieces of metal and plastic from the accident. He had looked carefully over all those specks and marks—but could he have missed something? Could one of those irregular spots have been the object? He’d been looking for a set of plans, a microchip, a micro-canister. But it might have been something else entirely. Maybe it was a piece of metal.

A piece of metal…

O’Brien had said his physicist friend, Epstein, told him the numbers looked like a metallurgical formula. That was it. That was it.

“You have to understand,” said Madame Chung. “Dr. Wu wasn’t planning to defect to the United States or anything like that. He’s a loyal and faithful citizen of China. But as a scientist, he felt in this case he had a moral imperative. His intention was for us to broadcast this great secret to the entire world, through our servers, in such a way that it could never be hidden again. It was to be a gift, you see—a gift to the world. From us.”

So Mindy was wrong about his motives, Gideon thought. But he had more important concerns at the moment. His mind was racing. Wu’s legs were full of metal, and his body was still in the morgue. Waiting for him, as next of kin, to claim. Good God, all he had to do was go down there and cut it out.

But first he had to get the X-rays and figure which piece of metal to cut out. He needed to visit Tom O’Brien first, and his friend the physicist.

He found Madame Chung staring at him. “Mr. Crew,” she said. “You realize that when you retrieve whatever it is Dr. Wu was bringing us, you’ll have to bring it back to me.”

He stared back at her.

“You do realize that, don’t you? It is an obligation you cannot escape.” And her musical voice cheerfully emphasized these final words as she gave him another bright smile.

51

Gideon Crew arrived back at the Waldorf around eleven in the evening, slipping in via the staff entrance and avoiding Saint Bart’s, where he feared Nodding Crane might still be waiting with his guitar. Thinking about it on his drive back from New Jersey, he realized that, from the steps of Saint Bart’s, Nodding Crane had a clear view of the windows of both his rooms, as well as both the main hotel entrance and the 51st Street entrance. Gideon couldn’t be sure the man knew of both rooms—but he had to assume he did. Nodding Crane had picked his location well.

Cursing his stupidity, Gideon punched the button for one of the service elevators and rode it up to the floor of his backup room. Once there, he carefully slipped in, not turning on the light in case Nodding Crane was still watching from below. Then again, maybe the man was waiting for him in the room. Gideon paused, listening. For the first time, he wished he hadn’t lost his handgun in the river or, at least, had asked Garza for another.

What unnerved him most about Nodding Crane wasn’t that the man had been tailing him so successfully. No—it was how damn good the man was on Blues guitar. Despite what Jackson had told him, he’d assumed Nodding Crane was a sort of Chinese contract killer, a caricature out of a kung fu movie, an expert in martial arts but unfamiliar with American culture, hobbled by his foreignness and lack of familiarity with the city. Now he realized these assumptions were false.

Gideon shivered. The room was silent, the air still. At last, he moved toward the bed and pulled out the Pelican case from underneath. In the reflected light from the window it looked undisturbed. He dialed the combination and opened it, slid out the manila folder containing Wu’s X-rays and medical report, then closed and locked it again. He removed his coat, slid the folders under his shirt, put his coat back on.

He momentarily thought of his own X-rays and CT scans, then forced the thought away. He would surely fail if he lost his focus now.

A growing hubbub of sirens sounded on the street out front. Gideon sidled up to the window and peered out. Something was going on at Saint Bart’s. Several ambulances and a slew of cop cars had pulled up, blocking the northbound lanes of Park Avenue, and a crowd was growing. The cops were setting up barricades and pushing the crowd back. Nodding Crane and his guitar were nowhere to be seen, and it was likely that, with all the activity, he’d moved off. But he would still be around, watching—Gideon was certain of that.

He slipped out of the room, easing the door shut behind him. The brightly lit hallway was quiet. He had to get up to see Tom O’Brien, and he had to do it in such a way as to make absolutely sure he wasn’t followed. The subway trick was a pretty good one, but Nodding Crane might be ready for it a second time. And he was pretty sure Nodding Crane was wise to his disguises by now.

He gave it some thought. The Waldorf had four exits, one on Park, one on Lex, and two on 51st Street. Nodding Crane could be watching any one of them. He might even have seen Gideon enter the hotel.

Damn. How was he going to get up to Columbia?

He had an idea. The crowd in front of Saint Bart’s just might, ironically enough, be a good place in which to lose a pursuer. He would find his opportunity in the crowd.

He took the elevator downstairs, walked through the lobby, and exited through the main door.

52

Gideon walked briskly toward the crowd, which was now spilling into Park Avenue, blocking traffic. Amazing how in New York a crowd could develop at any time of the day or night. He glanced about again, but Nodding Crane was nowhere in sight—at least, not in any way that he recognized. He wasn’t surprised; he knew now he was dealing with an exceptionally clever adversary.

He merged into the fringes of the crowd and began forcing his way through. If he could get to the other side fast enough, his pursuer—if there was one—would be forced to do the same. And that would render him visible.

As he reached the middle of the crowd, there was a collective gasp. EMTs had appeared in the door of the church with a stretcher, wheeling it down the handicapped ramp. A body bag lay on it. Somebody had evidently died—and, given the large police presence, it would appear that somebody had been murdered.

The crowd pressed forward with murmurs of excitement. Wheeling the body, the EMTs passed through the church park and down a temporary corridor through the crowd that had been cleared by barricades, making for a waiting ambulance. A perfect setup. Gideon pushed up to the barricades, vaulted them, sprinted across the open area, and ducked under the barricades on the far side, back into the crowd. A cop shouted at him, but the officials had more important things on their mind and let it go.

Forcing his way back out of the crowd, ignoring angry expostulations, Gideon emerged on the far side and ran down Park Avenue. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone had leapt the barrier or forced his way through the crowd. But no one had. He turned right, darted across the avenue against the light, and there—perfectly placed—was a cab disgorging its customer. He jumped in.

“West Hundred and Twentieth between Broadway and Amsterdam,” he said. “Go!”

The cabbie pulled out and Gideon watched the crowd as they sped away, but again no one appeared to be following or trying to hail another cab.

He glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Tom O’Brien’s number.

“Yo,” came the sarcastic voice. “Finally you’re calling at a decent hour, my man. Whassup?”

“I found out the secret Wu was carrying. It’s some special compound or alloy. And it’s embedded in his leg.”

“Cool.”

“I’m on my way to you with his X-rays. There’s a lot of crap in the legs from the car accident. I need your help pinpointing which spot it might be.”

“I’ll need to bring in Epstein—she’s the physicist.”

“I expected as much.”

“And then?”

“What do you mean?”

“What happens when we identify the piece of metal?”

“I go to the morgue and cut it out.”

“Nice. How’re you going to manage that?”

“I’ve already established myself as Wu’s ‘next of kin,’ and they’ve been waiting for me to claim the body. It’ll be a piece of cake.”

A long, low wheezy laugh sounded over the cell phone. “Jeez, Gideon, you’re a piece of work, you know that?”

“Just be ready. I don’t have any time to waste.”

He hung up and dialed Orchid’s number. He hoped she’d be happy to hear he’d almost worked through the “trouble” he was in and that he would see her, if not tomorrow, then surely the day after.

Orchid’s cell was turned off.

He settled back in the seat with the sour thought that she was probably with a customer.

53

Merry Christmas to you, too,” said O’Brien, watching Gideon let himself in without knocking, as usual.

“Is this the guy you told me about?” said Epstein, half sitting, half lying on a small sofa, cranky at having been roused from her bed at such a late hour. Her hair was askew and she was in a particularly foul mood because, O’Brien realized, she’d been expecting something quite different when he woke her up in the middle of the night. She was always ready for a good shagging, it had to be said.

“Gideon, meet Epstein. Epstein, Gideon.”

“O’Brien called you Sadie,” said Gideon, shaking her hand, which she proffered limply.

“Anyone who calls me Sadie,” she drawled sleepily, “gets a bang on the ear. This better be good.”

“It is good,” said O’Brien, hurriedly launching into the lie he’d prepared. “You remember those numbers I gave you? Well, we’ve got X-rays of this smuggler, see, he got in an accident but he was carrying some contraband substance embedded in his leg to get it through customs—”

Epstein cut him short with a wave of her hand. She turned to Gideon. “You tell me what it’s all about.”

Gideon glanced at her. He looked too flat-out exhausted to lie. “For your own safety, it’s better you not know anything.”

She waved her hand. “Whatever. Let’s just get on with it.”

Tom O’Brien rubbed his hands together with excitement. He loved intrigue. “Bring on those X-rays.”

Gideon pulled them out from beneath his shirt. O’Brien swept a light table clean of clutter, laid them on it, snapped on the light. After a moment, Epstein roused herself and leaned over the table from her sitting position, glanced at them, then sat back. “Yuck.”

“Let’s recap,” said O’Brien, rubbing his hands together again. “This guy’s carrying something stuck in his leg, a piece of metal or something, and he’s memorized the ratios of the various elements it’s made up of. That’s what Epstein here thinks about those numbers you gave us. Right?”

She nodded.

“Right. So now we’ve got some X-rays, and we’ve got to figure out which one of these blots or spots is what we’re looking for. Want to take a closer look, Epstein?”

“No.”

“Why not?” O’Brien was starting to get irritated.

“Because I’ve got no idea what you’re looking for. Is it an alloy? An oxide? Some other compound? Each would react differently to X-rays. It could be anything.”

“Well, what do you think it is? You’re the condensed matter physicist here.”

“If you two bullshitters gave me some idea of what’s going on, maybe I could take a guess.”

O’Brien sighed and looked at Gideon. “Should we tell her?”

Gideon was silent for a moment. “Fair enough. But this is classified information—and it would endanger your life if others found out you knew of it.”

“Spare me the spy-versus-spy crap. I’m not going to say anything—nobody would believe me, anyway. Just tell me.”

“For some years,” said Gideon, “the Chinese have been working on a top-secret project at one of their nuclear installations. The CIA thinks it’s some kind of new weapon, but what I’ve learned doesn’t jibe with that. Instead, it appears to be some kind of technological discovery that would, allegedly, allow China to dominate the rest of the world.”

“Sounds unlikely,” Epstein said. “But go on.”

“A Chinese scientist was bringing this secret into the United States—not to give it to us, but for other reasons.”

Epstein had finally sat up and was displaying a certain interest. “And is this secret the thing that’s embedded in his leg?”

“Exactly. The secret came in two parts: the thing in his leg and those numbers we gave you. As I guess you’ve surmised, the two go together: you can’t figure out one without the other. The scientist was killed in a car accident. Those are the X-rays from the emergency room.”

Epstein scrutinized the X-rays with fresh interest. “The numbers,” she said, “indicated to me that we’re dealing with a composite material made of a number of complex chemical compounds or alloys.” She turned to O’Brien. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

“I’ve got a loupe.” O’Brien rummaged around in a drawer, finally fishing it out. Examining the lens, he grimaced and wiped it clean on his shirttail before handing it to her.

She put it in her eye and bent over the X-rays once again, examining the white spots one after the other. “He really got creamed. Look at all this shit inside his legs.”

“It was a bad accident,” said Gideon.

Slowly, she moved from spot to spot on the X-ray. The minutes ticked off. After what seemed forever, she moved to the second film, and then the third. Almost immediately she stopped, examining one small fleck in particular. She looked at it a long time, and then straightened up, letting the loupe drop from her eye. Her whole face was shining, a transformation so complete that O’Brien took an involuntary step backward.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Unbelievable,” she breathed. “I think I know what we’re dealing with. Everything suddenly makes sense.”

“What?” both men asked at the same time.

She smiled broadly. “You really want to know?”

“Come on, Epstein! Don’t play games.” O’Brien could see her eyes glittering. He’d never seen her so excited.

“This is only a guess,” she said, “but it’s a good guess. It’s the only thing I can think of that fits the facts you’ve told me—and the peculiar thing I see on the X-ray.”

“What?” O’Brien asked again, more urgently.

She handed him the loupe. “You see that thing, there—the one that looks like a short, bent piece of wire?”

O’Brien leaned over and looked at it. It was about nine millimeters long, a medium-gauge piece of wire, irregularly bent.

“Look at the tips of the wire.”

He looked at the tips. Two black shadows with diffused ends. “Yeah?”

“Those shadows? Those are X-rays leaking out the ends of the wire.”

“Which means—?”

“That the wire somehow absorbed the X-rays and channeled, or redirected, them out through its ends.”

“And?” O’Brien looked up, took out the loupe.

“That’s almost unbelievable. A material that can capture and channel or focus X-rays? There’s only one material I know of that could do that.”

O’Brien exchanged glances with Gideon.

Epstein smiled mischievously. “I would direct your attention to the fact that it’s a wire.”

“Jesus, Epstein,” O’Brien cried. “You’re giving us a nervous breakdown! So what if it’s a wire?”

“What do wires do?” she asked.

O’Brien took a deep breath and glanced again at Gideon. He looked as impatient as O’Brien felt.

“Wires conduct electricity,” Gideon said.

“Exactly.”

“So?”

“So this is a special kind of wire. It conducts electricity—but in a different sort of way.”

“You’ve completely lost me,” O’Brien said.

“What we’re dealing with here,” she said, triumphantly, “is a room-temperature superconductor.”

A silence.

“Is that all?” O’Brien asked.

“Is that all?” She rounded on him incredulously. “It’s only the Holy Grail of energy technology!”

“I was expecting something that would…change the world,” O’Brien said lamely.

“This would transform the world, you dolt! Look. Ninety-nine percent of all electricity generated in the world is lost to resistance as it flows from source to use. Ninety-nine percent! But electricity flows through a superconducting wire without any resistance. Without any loss of energy. If you replaced all the transmission lines in America with wires made out of this stuff, you’d reduce electrical energy usage by ninety-nine percent.”

“Oh my God,” mumbled O’Brien as the impact sank in.

“Yeah. You could supply all US energy needs with just one percent of what it takes now. And that one percent could easily be supplied by existing solar, wind, hydro, and nuclear installations. No more coal and oil generating plants. Transportation and manufacturing costs would drop enormously. Electricity would be virtually free. Cars that ran on electricity would cost almost nothing to operate—they’d sweep away the gas-powered vehicle industry. The oil and coal industries would fold. We’re essentially talking the end of fossil fuels. No more greenhouse emissions, no more OPEC holding the world by the short hairs.”

“In other words,” Gideon said, “the country that controls this discovery would blow everyone else out of the water economically.”

Epstein laughed harshly. “Worse than that. The country that controls this material would control the world’s economy. It would rule the world.”

“And everyone else would be fucked,” O’Brien said.

She looked at him. “That is the technical term for it, yes.”

54

LET CONVERSATION CEASE, LET LAUGHTER FLEE. THIS IS THE PLACE WHERE DEATH DELIGHTS IN HELPING THE LIVING.

It was two o’clock in the morning and Gideon Crew was getting tired of reading that same motto above the door into the morgue, over and over again. It irritated him; it managed to be macabre and smug at the same time. As far as he could see, there wasn’t anything delightful about this grim and noisome place—or about death, for that matter.

He’d been waiting for forty-five minutes, and his impatience had almost reached its limit. The receptionist seemed to be moving as if underwater, shifting a piece of paper here, another there, taking a call, murmuring in a low voice, her long red fingernails clicking and clacking as she shuffled her paperwork.

This was ridiculous. He stood up, walked over. “Excuse me? I’ve been waiting almost an hour.”

She looked up. The nails ceased clacking. Black roots showed through the bleached-blond tease. She was a hard New Yorker of the old school. “We had a homicide come in. Tied up our personnel.”

“Homicide? Wow, that must be a rarity in New York City.” Gideon wondered, through the fog of irritation, if that was the one he’d seen at Saint Bart’s earlier. “Look, my…partner is in some cold drawer in there, and I just want a few minutes alone with him.” He put an aggrieved whine into his voice. “Just a few minutes.”

“Mr. Crew,” she said, unfazed, “you realize, don’t you, that the remains of your partner have been sitting here for five days, awaiting your instructions? You could have come in at any time. The file here says we’ve tried to contact you at least—” She checked her computer. “—half a dozen times.”

“I lost my cell phone,” he said. “And I’ve been traveling.”

“Okay. But you can’t expect to drop in at one in the morning and have everything ready and waiting, now, can you?” She gave him an uncompromising look.

Gideon felt sheepish and defeated. She was right, of course. But the box cutter was burning a hole in his pocket; the X-rays were doing the same in his shopping bag; and he couldn’t stop thinking of Nodding Crane and what he might be doing right now, whether he was around, whether he had staked out the morgue. The longer he had to wait, the more time he was giving Nodding Crane.

“How much longer?” Gideon asked.

The red nails went back to clacking and moving paper. “I’ll let you know when someone’s free.”

He sat back down and stared moodily at the motto again. He could hear faint sounds coming from behind the stainless-steel double doors, well dented by the incessant pounding of stretchers. Something was going on in there—the homicide, no doubt. Now he felt sure it was the one at Saint Bart’s. That would be big: someone murdered in one of the oldest and most venerable churches in New York, with one of the wealthiest congregations, to boot.

“What’s through those doors?” Gideon asked.

The woman looked up again. “Autopsy, coolers, offices.”

There was more noise from beyond the double doors, a vague murmur of excitement and activity. He glanced at the clock. Almost two thirty now.

The intercom on the receptionist’s desk squawked. She answered it in a hushed voice, then looked over at him. “Someone’s coming to help you now.”

“Thank you.”

A man, dressed in none-too-clean whites, bumped out through the doors. He was badly shaven, little dots and pimples of blood on his neck. He raised a clipboard, read from it. “George Crew?”

“That’s Gideon. Gideon Crew.”

Without another word he turned, and Gideon followed him through the doors. “I’d like to have a moment with him—alone,” he said to the man’s back.

No reply.

They walked down a long, bright, linoleum corridor that ended in another set of doors leading, it seemed, into the autopsy room itself. Through the door windows he had a glimpse of a row of stainless-steel and porcelain tables, several orange medical-waste bins, stacks of Tupperware containers. He could see a group around one of the tables, including detectives and cops. Must be the murder victim.

“This way, please.”

Gideon turned to follow the man through another door, down another corridor, and finally into a long room, lined on either side with metal drawers. A company logo identified them as SO-LOW, INC. equipment. The “coolers.”

The aide consulted his clipboard, his lips moving silently, and then, lips still moving, looked down the rows of drawers until he found the right one. He unlocked it with a key on a spiral cord held around his waist and slid the drawer out. A gray plastic body bag appeared, zipped up tight. The bitter-cherry smell of formaldehyde bit into Gideon’s nostrils, not even coming close to covering the smell of dead human meat.

“Um. You sure this is Mark Wu?” Gideon found himself unaccountably nervous.

“What it says here.” The man compared his clipboard with a number on a tag clipped to the bag.

Gideon could feel the hard plastic handle of the box cutter in his pocket. Despite the chill air of the morgue, the handle was slick from his sweaty hand. This was going to be an ordeal. He swallowed, tried to steel himself for it.

“I want a moment alone with him,” Gideon said, ending the request with a quick little fake sob. It didn’t come off well, sounding more like a hiccup.

This time, a nod. It seemed the aide was no more eager to stay in here than Gideon was. “Five minutes?”

“Um, how about ten?” Another sob, this one better.

A grunt of approval. “I’ll wait in the hall.”

“Thank you.”

The man went out and the door swung shut behind him. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly; the forced-air system hissed; the smell in the room was so strong, Gideon felt like it was coating him.

Ten minutes. He’d better get his ass moving. Pulling out the X-rays, he rechecked the location of the wire. It was on the inside of the left thigh, where Wu could have gotten to it readily. For the same reason, it wouldn’t be deep. With luck, the mark or scab of its insertion would still show—assuming the skin hadn’t deteriorated that badly over the last five days. He took a deep breath, then reached over and grabbed the zipper. It felt like a little cold worm between his thumb and finger. He hesitated, took another breath. And then he drew down the zipper, exposing the face, the naked hairless chest, its Y-incision crudely sewn back together after the autopsy. The body had been sponged off badly, leaving behind streaks and bits of clotted blood, various strings of one thing or another. There were numerous cuts and lacerations that had been sewn up more carefully, obviously during the time Wu was still alive.

The smell was overpowering.

With his left hand he pulled the box cutter from his pocket, wiped it dry, thumbed open the blade. It was time. With a final jerk he pulled the zipper all the way down—and stared. Shocked. Speechless.

“The legs!” he cried. “What the hell? What happened to the legs?”

55

A few blocks north of the Port Authority Bus Terminal and hard by the Hudson River stood a massive, nearly windowless ten-story structure of brown limestone, covering an entire city block. It had originally been the mill and headquarters of the New Amsterdam Blanket and Woolen Goods Corporation. Later, when the company went out of business, an enterprising firm purchased the building and retrofitted it into self-storage facilities. When this failed and was seized for nonpayment of taxes, the city converted the storage units, with few modifications, into “temporary” shelters for homeless persons. Known officially as the Abram S. Hewitt Transitional Housing Facility, unofficially as the Ant Farm, it was a vast cliff dwelling for thousands of the disillusioned and disenfranchised.

Nodding Crane’s own storage-unit-cum-studio was on the seventh floor of the Ant Farm. It suited him perfectly. In his grimy coat and hat, head hanging low, he was almost indistinguishable from the other inmates, the battered guitar case being the only thing that gave him a certain distinction in this shabby and miserable environment.

At two forty-five AM, he walked along the narrow corridor of the seventh floor, past unit after unit, each just a closed roll-down door with a stenciled number, his guitar case knocking gently against his legs. From behind the metal doors, he could hear coughing; snores; other, less identifiable noises. Reaching his own at last, he opened its padlock with a key, raised the curtain wall, ducked in, lowered it again, and barred it shut with a police brace. He reached up, pulled the cord to turn on the bare bulb, then glanced around. The slit of a window peeped into the blackness of an airshaft.

He knew the tiny room had not been burgled: he had replaced the supplied padlock with a much better one he’d purchased, with a five-pin tumbler and a stainless-steel shackle, and it had not been disturbed. And yet with him such an examination was as instinctive as breathing. There was little to take in: a futon, neatly made; a battered leather suitcase; a rice-paper mat; a case of liter-size bottles of springwater; a few rolls of paper towels. In one corner was a portable music player and a stack of well-used Blues CDs; in another, a small neat row of popular paperback books. Nodding Crane favored Hemingway, Twain, and the martial arts literature of the Tang dynasty: Fengshen Yanyi; Outlaws of the Marsh.

There was only one item in the little space that could be considered decorative: a photograph, badly creased and faded, of a brown and desolate-looking mountain range—the Pamir Plateau in the Xinjiang Autonomous Region. Putting his guitar carefully aside and hanging his coat and hat on a metal hook, Nodding Crane sat on the rice-paper mat and gazed at the photograph with an intense concentration, for five minutes exactly.

He had been born on that plateau, in the shadow of those mountains, far from any village. His father had been a poor herder and smallhold farmer who died when Nodding Crane was less than a year old. His mother had tried to carry on with the farm. One day, when Nodding Crane was six, a man stopped by. He looked very different from any man Nodding Crane had ever seen, and he spoke Mongolian haltingly, with a strange accent. The man said he was from America—Nodding Crane had vaguely heard of that place. He said he was a missionary, traveling from village to village, but to Nodding Crane he looked more like a beggar than a holy man. In exchange for a meal, he would pray with them and teach the word of God.

His mother invited the man in to share their supper. The man accepted. While they ate, he talked of faraway places, of his strange religion. He was a little clumsy with chopsticks and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and he kept taking quick drinks from a flask. Nodding Crane did not like the way he kept staring at his mother with wet eyes. Now and again he broke into song: a dolorous, mournful kind of music that was new to Nodding Crane. After dinner, as they were drinking tea, the man began pawing at Nodding Crane’s mother. When she pulled away, he knocked her to the floor. Nodding Crane threw himself on the man and was shoved violently away. When the man began to rape his mother, again he tried to defend her. But the man was powerful and beat him senseless with a brick. When he woke, he found his mother strangled.

A few days later, Shaolin monks took him away to live in their temple. Other than the kung fu training, however, monastic life ultimately proved not to his liking, and when he had mastered all they could teach he ran away, traveling first to Hohhot and then to Changchun, where he lived on the street and became a master thief. That was before the state police picked him up and, seeing his talent, sent him to the 810 Office for special training.

Every day, without fail, Nodding Crane performed this bitter reflection while gazing upon the faded photograph of his distant home. It was his meditation. He stood up, went through a lengthy series of breathing exercises and limbering drills. Then—in perfect silence—he performed the twenty-nine ritual steps of the “flying guillotine” kata. Breathing a little harder, he sat down again on the rice-paper mat.

Gideon Crew had almost reached his goal. Nodding Crane was now certain he would lead him to what he sought. As Crew closed in on his goal, he would be excited, rushed. It was the correct time for the feint, the unexpected jab at the flank. The girl would serve that purpose well.

Give your enemy no rest, Sun Tzu had written. Attack where he is unprepared, appear where you are unexpected.

Since that night on the Pamir Plateau many years ago, Nodding Crane had never smiled. Nevertheless he felt a warm glow inside himself now: a satisfied glow of violence performed, an expectant glow of more violence to follow.

Slipping his hand into a tear in the seam of the futon, he pulled out a small carrying case made of hard, ballistic plastic, hidden in a cavity excavated from the stuffing. He disarmed the explosive device protecting the case, then unlatched it. Inside were six cell phones; Chinese, Swiss, British, and American passports; many thousands of dollars in a variety of currencies; a Glock 19 with a silencer; and a single handkerchief, pale silk with complex embroidery.

Carefully, lovingly, he drew out the handkerchief. It had been his mother’s. Draping it over his knees, he reached his other hand into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out his set of picks: four fingerpicks and a thumbpick. They were coated with blood and matter and had lost their characteristic gleam.

He took one of the bottles of springwater, cracked it open, and dampened a paper towel with it. Then he arranged the picks before him, one by one. Long ago he had given them names, calling them after mythological deities, and now as he cleaned each one in turn he pondered its name and the individual personality of that pick. Pinkie: Ao Guang, dragon king of the east sea, who had once unleashed chaos onto the sinful world. Ring: Fei Lian, Flying Curtain, god of the wind. Middle: Zhu Rong, god of fire. Index: Ji Yushyu Xuan, god of the endless outer darkness. And master of them all, the thumbpick, Lei Gong, “duke of thunder,” tasked with punishing mortals who strayed from the true path.

Nodding Crane used the thumbpick to anchor the windpipe of his victims as the others did their slicing work; this last pick was particularly dirty and required a second application of water to clean satisfactorily.

At last the picks shone brilliantly again, their peace and equilibrium restored through loving attention. They would rest now, in preparation for fresh exercise to come. And Nodding Crane would follow their lead.

He carefully wrapped the picks in his mother’s handkerchief and placed them in a small wooden box. Then, stretching out on the futon, he quickly fell asleep amid the fitful night sounds of the Ant Farm.

56

Where are the legs?” Gideon rarely lost it, but he lost it now. He was beside himself, absolutely furious.

The aide came running in. “Hey, man, take it easy—”

“No one told me! No one asked my permission!”

“Look, stop shouting—”

“Fuck you! I won’t stop shouting!” His voice echoed and re-echoed down the stark corridors. There was the sound of running feet.

“You can’t shout in here,” said the aide. “I’m going to call security if you don’t calm down.”

“Go ahead! Call security! Ask them who stole the—my lover’s legs!” Even in his fury, he had to remain in character.

Another aide burst through the double doors, followed by a security guard. Gideon turned on them. “I want to know where Mark’s legs are!”

“Excuse me,” said a man, pushing his way in through the stupefied group. He had the air of authority, of calmness in the face of panic. “I’m a med tech. Sir, you’ve got to calm down.” He turned to the aide. “Go get the deceased’s medical records.”

“I don’t need the medical records, I need the legs!”

“The medical records will tell what happened to the legs,” the man said. He laid a steadying hand on Gideon’s arm. “You understand? We’re going to find out what happened to them. I suspect—” He hesitated, then went on. “—they may have been amputated.”

The word amputated hung in the air like a bad smell.

“But…” Gideon stopped. He realized immediately this was what must have happened. The legs had been crushed, ruined, beyond medical repair. They would have been amputated as part of the effort to save Wu’s life. He should’ve realized it the moment he first saw the X-rays.

The aide returned, followed by the blond receptionist, holding a freshly printed sheet of paper. The med tech took it, scanned it, handed it to Gideon.

It confirmed that the legs had been amputated a few hours after the accident, no doubt shortly after the X-rays were taken. Gideon scanned the sheet again. That had been almost a week ago. Now they were gone forever. He swallowed. The disappointment was so crushing that he was temporarily unable to speak.

“I think we’ve got everything under control here,” said the med tech. The others began to disperse.

Gideon recovered his voice. “What…what happened to them?”

The med tech continued to steady Gideon with a kindly arm. “They would have entered the medical-waste stream. Been disposed of.”

“Medical-waste stream? And what happens to that, goes into a landfill or something?”

“No. Medical waste is disposed of by burning.”

“Oh.” Gideon swallowed. “And…and how long does it take for it to be burned?”

“They don’t let it sit around, obviously. Look, I’m really sorry, but the legs are gone. I know it must’ve been a shock, but…well, your friend is dead.” He waved down at the body. “What you see here is just a discarded shell. Your friend has gone somewhere else, and where he is now he won’t be missing his legs. At least that’s what I believe, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

“No. No, I don’t mind. It’s just that…” Gideon fell silent. He couldn’t believe it was over. He had failed.

“I’m very sorry,” the man said.

Gideon nodded.

“Can I help you with anything else?”

“No,” said Gideon wearily. “I’m done here.” He zipped up the bag, slid the drawer shut. He wondered what Eli Glinn would have to say.

As they turned away, he noticed, for the first time, a very large and imposing African American woman standing in the doorway, wearing surgical scrubs, her mask pulled down. She cleared her throat. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said. “I’m Dr. Brown, one of the MEs around here.”

The med tech greeted her, and there was a silence.

Dr. Brown began to speak, very gently. “What was your name again, sir?”

“Gideon Crew.”

“I have some information, Mr. Crew, that might give you some small comfort.”

Gideon waited for another exposition of religious views.

“Mr. Correlli here is correct that it is standard procedure in this country for body parts from surgery to enter the medical-waste stream. But in this case, that would not have happened.”

“Why not?”

“Here in New York City we have an unusual system, perhaps even unique. When a limb is removed in surgery, if the patient doesn’t have specific directions for its disposal, that limb, after it leaves pathology, is placed in a box and delivered to New York’s potter’s field for burial.”

Gideon stared at her. “Potter’s field?”

“That’s right. It’s the place where the indigent are buried. The name comes from the Bible, the field where Judas was buried.”

“New York City has a potter’s field?”

“Correct. When a person dies and the body isn’t claimed, or if the family can’t afford a burial, the city buries the remains in their potter’s field. Same thing for, ah, unclaimed limbs. That’s where your friend’s legs would be buried.”

“And just where is this…potter’s field?”

“On Hart Island.”

“Hart Island?” Gideon repeated. “Where’s that?”

“As I understand, it’s an uninhabited island in Long Island Sound.”

“And the legs were buried there?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Is there a way to…relocate them?”

“Yes,” the ME said. “After going through pathology, all the bodies, limbs, and so forth are placed in numbered, labeled boxes and buried in such a way that they can be retrieved for pathological or forensic reasons. So you needn’t worry. Your friend’s legs received a decent burial.”

“I’m so relieved.” Gideon made an effort to cover up his racing pulse. This was incredible, unbelievable news.

The med tech gave Gideon a kindly pat on the shoulder. “Well, I hope that gives you some small comfort.”

“Yes,” Gideon said. “Yes, it does. Although—” Here Gideon turned a pair of soulful, pleading eyes toward the ME. “—I’d like the opportunity to visit them. Mourn them. Surely you understand?”

For all her self-possession, Dr. Brown seemed disconcerted. “Well, I would think the remains here would be sufficient for mourning purposes.”

“But this is only part of him.” Gideon let his voice quaver a little, as if he might break down at any moment.

Brown considered this, and then spoke. “On a few rare occasions, an ME has had to retrieve human remains. It’s always a huge ordeal, lots of paperwork, taking weeks. A court order is required. You’ve got to understand, Hart Island is completely off-limits to all visitors, period. The burial work is done by prisoners from Rikers Island.”

“But if they can retrieve a limb, how do they know where it’s buried? Do they keep track?”

“I believe the numbered boxes are stacked in their trenches in order. When they fill a trench, they place a cement marker at the end and start a new one.”

“How would I find out the number and location? Do you have that information?”

Brown took the printout from the med tech and consulted it, her brow wrinkling. “The files, here, have the number.”

Gideon extended a hand. “May I?”

She handed Gideon the printout and, fumbling a pen out of his pocket, he wrote down the indicated number: 695-998 MSH.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” the ME asked. “I’m overdue in the autopsy room, if you don’t mind. We’re a little short-staffed at the moment.”

“No, this is all I need. Thank you, Dr. Brown. I can find my way out.”

“I'll have to escort you as far as the waiting room.”

Gideon followed her solid and reassuring form into the corridor and past the autopsy room, which was still filled with activity. At least a dozen homicide detectives and police officers remained in the room; others had moved out into the corridor, almost blocking it. Even as they pushed through, Gideon could see that members of the press had now gathered outside the double doors, shouting and pushing.

“Must be a big deal, that homicide,” said Gideon.

“It was particularly brutal,” said Brown, tersely. “Excuse me,” she said, pushing through the doors and trying to get past an especially aggressive camera crew. As soon as the press saw her doctor’s scrubs, they surged forward with a chorus of shouted questions.

“Good luck.” She retreated behind the doors as the crowd peppered her with questions.

“Suspects,” someone shouted. “Are there any suspects?”

“Where in the church was the body hidden?”

Gideon tried pushing through the crowd as they continued to yell questions at the closed doors.

“…any witnesses or leads?”

He elbowed a burly soundman aside and made for the exit.

“…true that the throat was ripped out again, like the last one in Chinatown?”

Gideon halted abruptly, turned. Who had said that? He looked about the seething crowd and grabbed a reporter, hanging at the fringes of the crowd, tape recorder in hand.

“This murder—what was that I heard about the throat ripped out?”

“You’re a witness?” the man asked, suddenly eager, sticking out his hand. “Bronwick of the Post.”

Gideon stared at the man, his yellow ferret-teeth pushing out his lower lip. He had an incongruous Cockney accent.

“Maybe. Answer my question: was the throat ripped out?”

“Yes, it was. An ’orrible murder. Up at Saint Bart’s, they found her body hidden beneath some pews. Almost decapitated she was, just like the chap in Chinatown. Now then: your name, sir? And your connection to the case?”

Gideon gripped him harder. “Did you say her? The victim was a woman? What was her name?” He felt a sudden indefinable, hideous sensation, like insects eating at his nerves.

“A girl, yes, in her late twenties—”

“Her name!” He shook the man. “I need her name!”

“Take it easy, guv. Her name was Marilyn…” He consulted his notes. “Marilyn Creedy. Now I’d like to hear what you know, sir.”

Gideon pushed the man away and ran. And kept running.

57

Dawn broke over the Central Bronx, a dirty yellow stain that crept into the sky above Mosholu Parkway. Gideon Crew stared out the scarred window of the Lexington Avenue Express, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. He had been on the train for hours, going from its southern terminus at Utica Avenue in Queens to its northern terminus at Woodlawn in the Bronx and back, traveling beyond emotion into the gray territory of mere existence.

It had been years since he’d last cried, but he had found himself crying—with fury, with sorrow, with his own stupidity and selfishness.

But now he was beyond that. He had come through the other side and—slowly but surely—his mind had begun to function again.

He understood certain facts. Nodding Crane had murdered Orchid, then hidden her body so it would not be found immediately, giving him time for a clean getaway. He’d killed her for two reasons. First, there was the possibility she knew something and therefore had to die. But more important, Nodding Crane had murdered her as a way to flush him out. In this Nodding Crane had figured him exactly right: the killing would flush him out. Because now, Nodding Crane had to die. There was no other way. Gideon had dragged Orchid into this horror; he owed it to her.

And no doubt that was exactly what Nodding Crane expected.

Over the long hours on the train, Gideon had worked out the details. What they both sought was buried on Hart Island. Both would go to Hart Island to get it. Only one would return. But Gideon was not crazy, and he knew he needed to stack the deck in his favor. And this was where Mindy Jackson came in. She had proven herself; she would be his secret weapon.

He took out his cell phone and dialed her number.

To his great surprise, she actually answered. “Gideon?”

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Downtown. No luck yet on the woman. How about you? Found anything?”

“Everything.”

A silence. Then a cool, “Tell me.”

“First, I want your promise. We handle this my way.”

A pause. “Okay. Fine. Your way.”

“Wu wasn’t smuggling the plans to a weapon—he was carrying a piece of wire embedded in his leg. This wire is of a revolutionary new material. The numbers are the formula, the recipe for it. Put the two together and you’ve got it all.”

“What kind of new material?”

“A room-temperature superconductor.” He explained the significance of it and was impressed at how quickly she understood the ramifications—and the dangers.

“The legs,” he went on, “were amputated after the accident. They’re buried in a mass grave on Hart Island—New York’s potter’s field. I’ve got a few things to take care of, and then tonight I’m going to Hart Island to dig up those legs.”

“How are you going to find them?”

“Body parts are tagged and buried in numbered boxes, in sequence. I’ve got the number. We might have to do a little…sorting. I’ve got it all worked out. There’s a place where you can rent outboard skiffs on City Island, past the bridge on the right. Murphy’s Bait and Tackle. Meet me there at ten PM.”

“How far offshore is this island?”

“About a mile northeast of City Island, in the middle of Long Island Sound opposite Sands Point. Bring a sniper rifle.”

“This is stupendous. How did you—?”

He interrupted her. “Nodding Crane will be there.”

“Oh. Jesus.”

“Remember the agreement. We run this my way. No CIA army descending on the island and scaring Nodding Crane off. Just you and me.”

He snapped the phone shut. Then he collected a piece of trash lying on the floor of the subway car and began to write on it.

Nodding Crane sat across the street from Saint Bart’s, strumming his battered guitar. The police had come and gone, the barriers had been taken down, the cleaning crews had fixed the church. Everything had returned to normal. It was a beautiful morning, just a few fluffy clouds scudding across the field of blue. Now all he had to do was wait.

I wants my lover, come and drive my fever away

He saw Crew come up from 49th Street, going against the crowds of commuters, and turn the corner onto Park. Right on time. Nodding Crane took no little satisfaction in seeing that the man looked like death warmed over: haggard, disheveled, his eyes two pools of shadow. He crossed Park Avenue and walked directly up to where Nodding Crane had laid his open guitar case collecting tips. Nodding Crane kept playing, his voice soft. Crew stood over him, on the far side of the case, as he continued to strum and sing. The morning crowds streamed past; he knew Crew wouldn’t do anything rash.

Doctor says she’ll do me more good in a day

Crew dropped a crumpled piece of paper into the case, where it joined a smattering of bills and coins. He did not move. Nodding Crane finished the song and finally raised his head, and their gazes locked. For almost a minute they stared at each other, and Nodding Crane could feel the implacable hatred in Crew’s eyes, which warmed him as well as a fire. Then the man abruptly broke eye contact, turned, and walked back the way he had come, toward Lexington Avenue.

When he was gone, Nodding Crane picked up the wadded paper and opened it, to reveal a scribbled note.

We will meet on Hart Island at midnight tonight. This is where Wu’s amputated legs are buried. The exact location of the legs will be written on a slip of paper in my pocket. To get it, or the wire, you will have to kill me. Or I will kill you. Either way, one of us will die on Hart Island.

That is the way you planned it and that is the way it must be.

G. C.

Nodding Crane slowly balled up the paper in his fist as a look of deep satisfaction settled on his face.

58

Wherever there were drug dealers there were guns. And the center of drug dealing in New York City, at least at the street level, could be found in the ironically named Mount Eden neighborhood of the South Central Bronx. Gideon sat on the D train rocketing northward from Manhattan, a wad of cash burning a hole in his pocket. This was not the most intelligent way to acquire a firearm, but he was in a hurry and it had the advantage of efficiency.

As the D train pulled out of the 161st Street Yankee Stadium stop, a man who had just gotten on angled over to sit down beside him. It took Gideon a few moments to realize it was Garza, tricked out as an artist in black beret and peacoat.

“What, exactly, are you doing?” Garza asked. His tone had lost much of its initial affability.

“My job.”

“You’re out of control. You’ve got to cool it, slow down, and come in to discuss the next step with us.”

“This has nothing to do with you anymore,” said Gideon, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “It’s my gig now. It’s personal.”

“That’s just what I mean: you’re getting too close to this. I’ve never seen anything so unprofessional. Eli was wrong to trust you. You’re in danger of compromising the mission with your recklessness.”

Gideon didn’t answer.

“Going up to Throckmorton Academy, pretending to be a parent—what kind of a crazy damn move is that? From now on, we want to know what you’re doing and where you’re going. If you think you can beat Nodding Crane, you’re a fool.”

Gideon sensed Garza knew nothing of Hart Island. It gave him a certain satisfaction to be ahead of Glinn and his smooth-operating sidekick for once. “I’ll handle it myself.”

“No, you won’t. You’ll need backup. Don’t be a damn idiot.”

Gideon scoffed.

“Where are you meeting him?”

“None of your business.”

“You go rogue on us, Crew, and we’ll shut you down, I swear to God we will.”

Gideon hesitated. This was a complication he didn’t need. “Corona Park. Queens.”

A beat. “Corona Park?”

“You know. Where the old World’s Fair was. We’re meeting at the Unisphere.”

A silence. “When?”

“Midnight tonight.”

“Why there?”

“Just a place to meet.”

Garza shook his head. “A place to meet.”

“Nodding Crane murdered my friend. Now it’s either him or me. Like I said, this has nothing to do with you. When I get done with this business, I’ll take care of yours. Don’t try to stop me.”

Garza was silent for a while, then he nodded. As the train pulled into the next stop, he rose and left, a disgusted look on his face.

Crew got off at 170th and the Grand Concourse. He walked eastward toward the park, passing a row of abandoned buildings. Reaching the park—a sad affair with dirt instead of grass and trash everywhere—he slowed his walk to a loiter, glancing around, just another suburban guy looking for drugs. Almost immediately he was accosted by a dealer, who passed him murmuring smoke, smoke.

He stopped, turned. “Yeah.”

The dealer swerved and came back. He was a short, stooped kid with a comb stuck in his hair, pants hanging south of his ass. “What you need?” he asked. “Got smoke, blow, horse…”

“A pistol.”

Silence.

“I’ll pay big money,” Gideon went on. “But I need something heavy-caliber, best quality.”

The dealer didn’t seem to hear at first. Then he muttered something that sounded like “wait here” and rambled off.

Gideon waited. Twenty minutes later the kid was back. “Follow me,” he said.

Gideon followed him out of the park and into an abandoned building on Morris Avenue, an old brownstone with bashed-out windows and a dark, urine-fragrant interior. As dangerous as this was, it was better than asking Garza for another gun on bended knee. He didn’t want to be any more beholden to the man than necessary. He knew he should be nervous, even scared, and yet he felt nothing. Nothing but rage.

The dealer went to the dismal stairwell, whistled up it. A whistle returned.

“Second floor,” he said.

Gideon mounted the stairs, stepping over a scattering of used condoms, crack vials, and vomit. He reached the second floor. On the landing, two men waited, both dressed in expensive gym clothes with puffy white sneakers. They were Hispanic and well groomed. The taller one, obviously the leader, had a carefully clipped five-day stubble, plenty of rings and gold chains, and smelled strongly of Armani Attitude. The shorter one sported several cold sores.

“Let’s see the money,” said the tall one, flashing a self-assured grin.

“When I see the gun.”

The leader shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back, looking down at Gideon. He was tall and used his height to intimidate. His eyes, however, were stupid. “We got the gun.”

“Let’s see it. I don’t have all day.”

The short one with the cold sores reached into his jacket, pulled a gun halfway out. “Nine-millimeter Beretta.”

“What’s the price?”

“How much you got?”

Gideon felt his rage, already close to the boiling point, rise. “Listen, sucker. Name your price. Then I’m going to check out the piece. If it’s good, I pay. If not, I walk.”

Tall Man nodded, puckering his lips. “Show it to him.”

Cold Sores removed the gun, handed it to Gideon. Gideon took it, looked it over, snapped the rack a few times. “The magazine?”

Out came the magazine. Gideon took it, frowned. “Rounds?”

“Look, man, we can’t have no shooting here.”

Gideon thought about that. They were right, of course. He would have to field-test it later. He took the magazine, slapped it in, hefted the gun, pulled the trigger. It appeared to be in excellent condition. “I’ll take it.”

“Two thousand.”

That was a lot for a seven-hundred-dollar pistol. He looked at it closely. The serial number had been filed off, which probably meant nothing. Acid would bring it up again. He felt in his jacket pocket, where he had put his cash, done up in rubber-banded blocks of five hundred. He selected four, brought them out. He put the gun in his pocket and gave the packets to Tall Man.

He turned to go and heard a voice. “Just a minute.”

He turned back to find both men with pistols aimed at him. “Give me the rest of your money,” Tall Man said.

Gideon stared. “You robbing me? A customer?”

“You got it, boy.”

Gideon had another two thousand in his pocket. He made a quick decision, pulled out the money, tossed it on the ground. “That’s all of it.”

“Pistol, too.”

“Now, that’s going too far.”

“Then kiss your white ass good-bye.” They both grinned, aiming their guns.

“My white ass?” Gideon asked, incredulously. He reached in, removed the pistol, aimed it at the men.

“You’re forgetting it ain’t loaded, you punk-ass bitch.”

“If I give you the gun back, promise to let me go,” Gideon whined, holding it out.

“Sure thing.” Two shit-eating smiles followed this assurance.

Gideon’s hand shook so much they began to laugh. Tall Man reached over to get the pistol and, just at that moment of distraction, Gideon lashed out at Cold Sores, smacking the gun out of his hand while at the same time jamming his foot against the side of his knee and twisting himself out of the way of Tall Man’s line of fire. As Cold Sores went down with a howl, Tall Man fired, and Gideon felt the bullet tug the shoulder of his jacket. With a furious scream he fell on Tall Man. He went down like a rotten tree and Gideon landed on top of him, wresting the gun from him in one violent motion and jamming it in his eye, pressing it hard against the eyeball.

“No, no, oww!” the man screamed in pain, trying to twist his head, but the barrel was pressed so hard against his eye, he was forced to stop moving. “Stop, please, oh shit, don’t! My eye!”

Cold Sores was up again, having retrieved his gun. He aimed it at Gideon.

“Drop it or I fire!” Gideon screamed like a lunatic. “And then I’ll kill you!”

“Drop it!” shrieked Tall Man. “Do what he says!”

Cold Sores backed out of the room, limping, not dropping it. Gideon could see he was going to run. Hell, let him go. Cold Sores broke and ran. Gideon could hear his footsteps clattering down the stairs, and then a crash as he fell in panic. More lopsided running and then silence.

“Looks like it’s just us,” said Gideon. He could feel warm blood running down his arm. The bullet had evidently grazed his shoulder. A tuft of material stood out. The actual wound was dead, without feeling.

Tall Man blubbered incoherently. Keeping the barrel pressed hard into his eye socket, rendering him immobile, Gideon felt inside the man’s jacket, removed the money. There was another, much bigger brick of cash in there—at least five thousand. He took that as well, along with a knife. Then, as an afterthought, he ripped the gold jewelry from the man’s neck, yanked off his diamond rings, and took his wallet. Feeling around in the pockets, he collected car keys, house keys, loose change, and half a dozen nine-millimeter rounds that had evidently been removed from the Beretta’s magazine.

He pulled the pistol out of the man’s eye. Tall Man lay on the floor, blubbering like a baby. “Listen to me, Fernando,” said Gideon, looking at the man’s driver’s license. “I’ve got your keys. I know your address. You try any shit and I’m coming to your house and I’m going to kill your family, your dog, your cat, and your goldfish.”

The man let out a wail, covering his face with his hands, rocking on the floor.

As Gideon left the building, he made sure Cold Sores wasn’t lurking around, then began heading for the Grand Concourse subway station. Along the way he dropped the keys, bling, and wallet down a storm drain, keeping the money and guns.

Now he had two pistols. He ducked into a doorway and examined his haul. The second was a Taurus Millennium Pro in .32 ACP caliber with a full magazine. He loaded the 9mm rounds into the magazine of the Beretta, slapped it into place, and tucked both firearms into the rear of his belt. Then he took off his jacket and examined his shoulder. It wasn’t quite as superficial as he’d thought, but it was still only a flesh wound. He put his jacket back on and glanced at his watch. Ten AM.

On the way to the subway, he stopped at a drugstore, where he purchased a butterfly bandage and applied it to his shoulder in the restroom. Next, on impulse, he dropped into a variety store, where he bought a notebook, some paper, pens, and a thick manila envelope. Finally, he repaired to a nearby coffee shop to write his last will and testament.

59

The coffee shop was a cheerful place, a sturdy holdout against the grime and hopelessness outside. A battleax waitress, at least sixty but spry as a teenager, with bobbing hair and pancake makeup, came bustling over.

“What can I get you, hon?”

She was perfect. For the first time in a long while, Gideon felt an emotion that wasn’t dark. He tried to smile. “Coffee, eggs over easy, bacon, white toast.”

“You got it.”

She went off and he opened the notebook, thinking. There were two things he loved in the world: his fishing cabin in the Jemez Mountains and his Winslow Homer drawing. The drawing would have to go back to the Merton Art Museum in Kittery, Maine, from which he’d appropriated it years before. But the cabin…He wanted to make sure it went to someone who would love it as he did, who would not let it go to wrack and ruin. Or sell it to a developer. Even if he defeated Nodding Crane—and that was a big if—he knew now that he would still be staring death in the face.

The waitress slid his breakfast in front of him. “Writing the great American novel?” she asked.

He gave her his best smile and she went off, pleased. As Gideon contemplated his own mortality—which he’d been doing a lot of lately—he realized he had nobody. He’d spent most of his adult life pushing people away. He had no family, no true friends, and no colleagues he was friendly with from work. The closest thing he had to a pal was Tom O’Brien—but their relationship had always been transactional, and the guy lacked integrity. His only real friend had been a prostitute—and he’d gotten her killed.

“Top off that coffee?” the waitress asked.

“Thanks.”

And then a name came to him. Someone he could trust. Charlie Dajkovic. He hadn’t been in touch with the man since the death of General Tucker. The fellow had spent some time in the hospital, but last Gideon had heard he was recovering nicely. They weren’t friends—not exactly. But he was an honest man, a good man.

Gideon began to write, trying to control the faint shake in his hand. It was not easy. Dajkovic would get the cabin and everything in it, with the exception of the Winslow Homer. He appointed Dajkovic his executor and charged him with returning the drawing (anonymously) to the Merton Art Museum. In life he had escaped all suspicion; he sure as hell didn’t want to be fingered after death.

It didn’t take long to complete the document. As he read it over, his mind drifted to his secret fishing hole on Chihuahueños Creek. It had taken him years of lashing the waters of the creeks that drained the northern Jemez Mountains to find that one place—the most beautiful on earth. After a moment’s consideration, he turned over the letter and drew a map for Dajkovic, showing him how to get there, along with suggestions for what sort of flies to use at what times of the year. That would be his biggest bequest.

He hoped to hell Dajkovic liked to fish.

When he was done, he called the waitress over.

“More coffee?” she asked.

“A favor.”

She immediately brightened.

“This letter,” said Gideon, “is my last will and testament. I need two witnesses.”

“Aw, hon, you can’t be over thirty, what you thinking about that for?” The waitress filled up his mug anyway. “I got thirty years on you and I still ain’t thinking about that.”

“I’ve got a terminal illness.” As soon as he said it, he wondered why in the world he was confiding in this stranger.

The waitress laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. Nothing’s engraved in stone. Pray to the Lord and he’ll deliver you a miracle.” She turned. “Gloria? Get over here, this gentleman needs our help.”

The shop’s other waitress came over, a chubby girl of perhaps twenty, her face shining with happiness at being of service. Gideon felt moved by these two random strangers with big hearts.

“I’m going to sign this,” Gideon said, “and then I’d like the two of you to witness it and sign your names here, then print them below.”

He signed, they signed, and then, as Gideon rose, the old waitress gave him a spontaneous hug. “Pray to the Lord,” she said. “There’s nothing He can’t do.”

“Thank you so much. You’ve both been really kind.”

They moved away. Gideon wrote a cover note to Eli Glinn, asking him to make sure Dajkovic received the letter; he then sealed it and addressed it to Glinn at Effective Engineering Solutions on Little West 12th Street. He removed the brick of cash he had stolen from the drug dealer, slipped it under his overturned plate, and quickly left the coffee shop.

On his way to the subway he dropped the letter into a mailbox, feeling a huge wave of self-pity at his lonely, screwed-up existence, which was soon to end one way or another. Maybe the waitress was right: he should try prayer. Nothing else had worked in his sorry life.

60

Gideon took the subway to the end of the line and caught the bus for City Island. By noon he found himself standing outside Murphy’s Bait and Tackle on City Island Avenue, seabirds wheeling overhead. It was hard to believe this sleepy fishing village was part of New York City.

He pushed in to find himself in a narrow shop with glass cases on three sides and a gigantic man in a T-shirt at the far end.

“What can I do for you?” the man boomed out in a genial Bronx accent.

“Are you Murphy?”

“The one and only.”

“I want to rent a boat.”

The rental was quickly arranged, and the man escorted him through the shop to the docks behind. There a dozen open fiberglass skiffs were tied up, each with a six-horsepower outboard, anchor, and gas can.

“Got a storm coming in,” Murphy said as he readied the boat for departure. “Better be back by four.”

“No problem,” Gideon replied as he stowed the fishing rod and bait box he’d purchased as a cover.

A few minutes later he set off, soon passing under the City Island Bridge and entering the open water of Long Island Sound. Hart Island lay about half a mile to the northeast, a long, low mass, indistinct in the haze, dominated by a large smokestack that rose easily a hundred fifty feet into the air. The wind had picked up and the small boat ploughed through the chop, water slapping against the hull. Dark clouds scudded across the sky and gulls rode the air currents, crying loudly.

Gideon consulted the marine chart he had purchased earlier and identified the various landmarks by sight: the Execution Rocks, the Blauzes, Davids Island, High Island, Rat Island. He tried to get a feel for the waypoints of the journey: the next time he came this way it would be dark.

The boat, with its puny engine, moved through the water at a walking pace. Gradually, the island solidified out of the haze.

Almost a mile long, it was covered with a scattering of trees interspersed among clusters of ruined brick buildings. When he was about a hundred yards offshore, he turned the tiller and began making a circuit of the island, examining it with binoculars. The large smokestack rose from a ruined complex on the eastern shore that appeared to have once been a power plant. Reefs and outcroppings were everywhere. Giant, billboard-like signs placed every few hundred yards along the shore warned visitors away:

New York City Correction Department

RESTRICTED AREA

NO Trespassing   NO Docking   NO Anchoring

VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED

As he reached the northern end of the island, he saw some activity and threw the engine into idle, scrutinizing the scene with his binoculars. Through a screen of oak trees, he could make out a group of convicts in orange jumpsuits laboring in the middle of a field. A backhoe idled nearby. They were unloading pine coffins from the rear of a truck and laying them out beside a freshly dug trench. A group of well-armed corrections officers stood around, watching the activity, gesturing and shouting directions.

Allowing the boat to drift, Gideon continued his observations, occasionally making notes.

Satisfied at last, he fired up the engine again and continued down the western shore of the island. About midway, a long sandy beach came into view, covered with various jetsam, including trash, driftwood, and old boat hulls. The beach ended at a concrete seawall, behind which rose the old power plant complex and the great smokestack. Painted on the brick façade of the main building was a message at least a hundred feet long and thirty feet high:

P R I S O N

K E E P   O F F

He decided to land his boat beside the seawall, next to a salt marsh and beyond a treacherous-looking series of reefs.

Gideon brought the boat in, angling it through the reefs, moving slowly. A moment later he cut the engine, hopped out of the boat into the chop, and, wading, pulled it up on the beach.

He checked his watch: one o’clock.

61

Gideon walked up the beach, climbed over the low seawall, slipped into the cover of some trees, then paused to take stock. To his left lay an open field, beyond which stood the ruined power plant. On the right, set back from the shore, stood a neighborhood of modest bungalow houses, complete with streets, streetlights, driveways, and sidewalks. It looked like an ordinary, old-fashioned suburban neighborhood—except that everything lay in ruins, the houses crumbling, window frames broken and black, roofs caved, vines smothering the streetlights and choking the houses, the street itself a web of cracks through which sprouted weeds and stunted trees.

He waited, senses on high alert. In the distance, toward the end of the island, he could hear the faint rumble of the backhoe digging a mass grave. But this middle section of the island seemed deserted. He took from his pocket a Google Earth image he’d printed and spent a few minutes reconnoitering. Then he began moving cautiously along an overgrown street and across the broad field toward the ruined complex of buildings he’d noticed earlier. A carved limestone block set into the brick façade of the first building announced its purpose and the date: DYNAMO ROOM 1912. Through the shattered windows, he could see massive pieces of equipment: iron flywheels, rotting belts, broken gauges, steam pipes, and a giant, riveted iron furnace and boiler wrapped in vines that grew up and out of a roof open to the sky.

Gideon walked northward toward the burial grounds, keeping hidden in the brush and trees along the side of the road, moving slowly, checking the Google Earth image and taking notes, committing everything to memory. It was a postapocalyptic landscape, an entire community left to rot. Nothing had been boarded up or secured; it was as if, perhaps half a century ago, everyone had just walked away and never returned. There were parked cars sunken in weeds, a general store with moldering goods still on the shelves, houses with sagging door frames, inside of which he glimpsed decaying furniture, peeling wallpaper, an umbrella sitting in a stand by the door, an old hat on a table. He passed a ruined chapel, gaping and open to the elements; a butcher shop with rusting knives still hanging on a pegboard—and lying in the central square, an ancient, headless Barbie doll. At the edge of town he came to an old baseball field, bleachers draped in vines and the field a small forest.

Gideon skirted the ruins of a tubercularium and rows of dormitories for a juvenile workhouse, with the motto GOD AND WORK carved into the decaying lintels. There were several pits in the ground, old basements and foundations, some exposed, others covered with rotting flooring. Everything was on the verge of collapse. Consulting the Google Earth image again, he located, beyond the dormitories, a huge, circular open area covered with concrete with several decaying metal trapdoors—the subterranean remains of the old Nike missile base.

As he neared the northern end, buildings gave way to large overgrown fields, dotted with cement markers, numbered and whitewashed. The sounds of the backhoe grew louder. He crept into some dense woods bordering the fields and continued moving north. Within a quarter mile, the woods petered out into yet another overgrown field, and here Gideon dropped and crept forward on his belly, peering through binoculars at the scene of activity, about a hundred yards away, in a freshly dug area of the field.

Rows of coffins had been lined up on the edge of a long trench, and the convicts were busily handing them down to others within the trench, who were stacking them in rows, six deep and four across. He watched as they laid down two courses of coffins, forty-eight in all. Each coffin had a number scrawled on the side and lid in a black felt-tip marker.

A trusty with a clipboard kept track of the work, backed up by several guards armed with pistols and shotguns. When the coffins had all been lowered, the men climbed out, laid pieces of corrugated tin over the top layers, and stood by as the backhoe fired up, ejected a dirty cloud of diesel smoke into the air, and pushed a wall of earth onto the tin, covering up the fresh coffins with dirt to ground level. The wind was blowing hard, tossing the treetops, and Gideon could smell, from time to time, the scent of fresh earth, mingled with an acrid odor of formalin and decay. At the far end of a field stood an open-sided brick shed, in which sat a second backhoe.

Gideon circled the field, seeking a better vantage point, trying to locate where the small boxes containing limbs might be buried. He found what he was looking for in a second, parallel trench, farther down the field. It had been partially covered with dirt, keeping the most recent boxes exposed and ready for more stacking; his binoculars revealed that these boxes were small—the right size for body parts—and also marked by scrawled numbers. A piece of corrugated tin had been laid over the exposed rows of mini coffins, weighed down with dirt at one end, evidently protecting them from the elements until the stacks could be finished.

He would need a better inspection. The trench was deep, and from his vantage point he couldn’t see to its bottom. He’d have to get close enough to peer in—very close. And there was no way to do that without being caught.

He stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and casually strolled into the open field.

62

They spotted him immediately.

“Hey! Hey, you!” Two of the guards drew their guns and came running toward him across the field. Gideon kept walking, moving quickly to the trench before they could stop him. By the time they reached him he was standing at the edge, looking down.

“Hands in sight! Keep your hands in sight!”

Gideon looked up, as if surprised. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t move! Hands in sight!” A guard dropped to one knee and covered him with his service pistol while the other approached cautiously, shotgun at the ready. “Hands behind your head.”

Gideon obeyed.

One was white, the other black, and both were pumped up and fit. They wore blue shirts with NYC CORRECTION SSD printed on the backs in white letters. One of the guards patted him down and emptied his pockets, removing the Google Earth map, the notebook, his wallet, and a piece of parchment Gideon had prepared earlier.

“He’s clean.”

The other officer rose, holstered his Glock. “Let’s see some ID.”

Gideon, his hands still raised, spoke in a voice high with panic. “I didn’t do anything, I swear! I’m just a tourist!”

“ID,” the guard repeated. “Now.”

“It’s in my wallet.”

The man handed the wallet back and Gideon fumbled out his New Mexico driver’s license, handed it over. “Am I not supposed to be here or something?”

They examined the license, passing it back and forth. “You didn’t see the signs?”

“What signs?” Gideon stammered. “I’m just a tourist from—”

“Cut the crap.” The black officer, who was evidently in charge, frowned. “The signs on the shore. Everywhere. You telling me you didn’t see them?”

The officer’s radio burst into life, a voice demanding to know what was going on with the intruders. The guard unholstered his walkie-talkie. “Just some guy from New Mexico. We got it under control.”

He holstered the radio and stared at Gideon with narrowed eyes. “Care to tell us how you got here and just what the hell you’re doing?”

“Well, I was…just out in the boat fishing, decided to explore the island.”

“Oh, yeah? You blind or something?”

“No, I really didn’t notice any sign…I was worried about the chop, I wasn’t paying attention, I swear…” He made his whine singularly unconvincing.

The white guard held up the parchment. “What’s this?”

Gideon turned red. He said nothing. The two officers exchanged amused glances.

“Looks like a treasure map,” said the white officer, dangling it in front of Gideon.

“I…I…,” he stammered and fell silent.

“Cut the bullshit. You were hunting for buried treasure.” The officer grinned.

After a moment’s hesitation, Gideon hung his head. “Yeah.”

“Tell us about it.”

“I was here on vacation from New Mexico. This guy down on, um, Canal Street sold me the map. I’m an amateur treasure hunter, you see.”

“Canal Street?” The two officers exchanged another glance, one rolling his eyes. The black officer struggled to keep a straight face as he examined the map. “According to this map, you’re even on the wrong island.”

“I am?”

“The X on this map here is on Davids Island. That’s the island over there.” He jerked his chin.

“This isn’t Davids Island?”

“This is Hart Island.”

“I’m not used to the ocean, I must’ve gotten mixed up.”

More laughter, but it was more amused than derisive. “Man, you are one lost dude.”

“I guess so.”

“So who’s the pirate who’s supposed to have buried this treasure? Captain Kidd?” More chuckling, then the black guard’s face became serious again. “Now look, Mr. Crew, you knew you were trespassing. You saw the signs. Don’t bullshit us.”

Gideon hung his head. “Yeah, I saw them. I’m sorry.”

His radio burst into life again, another voice inquiring about the intruder. He responded. “Captain, the guy was hunting for buried treasure. Got a map and everything. Bought it down on Canal Street.” He paused and Gideon could hear the crackle of laughter on the other end. “What should I do?”

He listened for a while and then said, “Right. Over.” He grinned. “Today’s your lucky day. We aren’t going to arrest you for criminal trespass. Where’s your boat?”

“On the beach down by that big smokestack.”

“I’m going to escort you back to your boat, understand? For your information, this island is totally off-limits to the public.”

“What, ah, do you do here?”

“Landscaping,” said the guard, to more laughter. “Now let’s go.”

Gideon followed him across the field and down to the road. “Really, what are you doing back in that field, burying all those boxes? They look like coffins.”

The officer hesitated. “They are coffins.”

“What is this, some kind of burial ground?”

“Yeah. It’s the public burial ground for New York City. Potter’s field.”

“Potter’s field?”

“When someone dies in the city, and they don’t have any family or money to pay for a burial, they get buried here. We got Rikers Island inmates doing the work, so we can’t have visitors landing in boats, you understand?”

“Yeah? How many bodies are there?”

“Over a million,” said the guard, with no little touch of pride.

“Holy cow.”

“Largest burial ground in the world. Been going since the Civil War.”

“That’s incredible. And you give them all a Christian burial?”

“Interfaith. We got all kinds of religious figures coming here blessing the dead—priests, ministers, rabbis, imams. Every religion gets its turn.”

They walked past the old power plant. The ruined Dynamo Room loomed above the tangled vegetation, adjacent to a broad field.

“Where’s your boat?” asked the guard, peering across the field toward shore.

“It’s down on the beach over there beyond that seawall.”

Instead of walking straight across the field, the guard walked north along the road, making a loop.

“Why are we going this way?”

“That field’s off-limits,” said the guard.

“What for?”

“Don’t know. There’s a lot of places on the island that are dangerous.”

“Oh really? How do you know where they are?”

“We got a map, shows the no-go areas.”

“On you?”

The guard pulled it out. “We’re required to carry it.”

Gideon took the map and scrutinized it for as long as he dared before the guard folded it up and put it away. After making a broad detour around the field, they arrived at the beach and walked over to the boat.

“Um,” said Gideon, “can I have my stuff back?”

“Guess it isn’t a problem,” the guard said, pulling the map, notebook, and other papers from his pocket, handing them over.

“Is Davids Island open to the public?” Gideon asked.

The guard laughed. “It’s a park but, ah, if I were you I wouldn’t go digging holes over there.” He hesitated. “Mind if I give you a little advice?”

“Please.”

“That map you bought? It’s fake.”

“Fake? How do you know?”

“Canal Street? You see all those Rolexes, Vuitton bags, Chanel perfume, and Prada shit they’re selling down there? That’s counterfeit central. Although I got to admit a fake treasure map is taking it to another level.” He issued a not unkindly laugh, laying a friendly hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “I’d hate to see you waste your time and get into trouble. Trust me, that’s no treasure map.”

Gideon put on his most crestfallen face. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I’m sorry we’ve got so many scumbags in New York City ripping off the tourists.” The guard glanced up at the sky, which had grown almost black with roiling clouds. The wind was gusting, and the bay was covered with whitecaps. “If I were you, I’d forget Davids Island and get my ass off the Sound. We get some serious riptides and shit around here when there’s a storm, and there’s a big one coming in.”

63

At ten o’clock that evening, Gideon, dressed as a college-aged backpacker, loitered on City Island Avenue, observing Murphy’s at a distance. In his backpack he carried the two illegal firearms, boxes of extra rounds, a knife, a headlamp, a flashlight, a folding shovel, folding pick, rope, Mace, bolt cutters, two pairs of night-vision goggles, maps, and the notebook. The gusts of wind coming off the Sound set Murphy’s old wooden sign swinging back and forth on creaky hinges. The air smelled of salt water and seaweed. The southern horizon was alive with distant flashes of lightning, blooming inside towering thunderheads, approaching fast.

He could see no sign of Mindy. It was a few minutes past their rendezvous time, but he assumed she had arrived early and was probably hanging back somewhere, waiting for him to show.

And as if on cue, he heard her low voice from the darkness of the small park behind him. “Hello, Gideon.”

She stepped out, looking trim and athletic, carrying her own backpack, a woolen beret worn jauntily on her head, her short hair stirred by the wind. She greeted him with an affectionate kiss.

“What a charming surprise.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said with an arch smile. “That’s part of the cover—just two college kids on a summer trip—like you said, right?”

“Right.”

They crossed the street. Next to the boat rental was a marine yard surrounded by a high chain-link fence, which blocked access to the piers. Gideon looked up and down the street, satisfied himself it was empty, then scaled the fence and dropped down on the other side. Mindy landed softly beside him. They scooted across the yard, scaled another fence, and ended up on the pier leading to the floating docks.

“The outboards are kept in here,” Gideon said, indicating a locked shed. He attacked the lock with the pair of bolt cutters, and in a moment they had hauled out a six-horsepower Evinrude with a full gas can, fuel lines, and a pair of oars. They jumped into a boat; Gideon bolted the engine to the stern and connected the fuel lines while Mindy untied and pushed off.

Gideon started rowing. In a few minutes they’d moved out of the protective slip and into the teeth of the rising wind.

Mindy shielded herself from the blowing spume. “You got a plan yet?”

“Of course. Nodding Crane is already on the island. It’s essential for him to think I’m coming alone. So get down and stay down while I explain.”

“Sure thing, boss.” She curled up below the gunwale.

Beyond the docks, Gideon lowered the engine, fired it up, and headed down the protected channel toward the dark outline of the City Island Bridge. Beyond lay the open water of Long Island Sound. Even in the darkness, he could make out the whitecaps. It was going to be a rough crossing.

“Let’s hear it,” said Mindy from the bottom of the boat.

“I’m going to drop you off at the southern end of the island. I’ll land midway on the island and make my own way to where the burial ground is. On foot, you’ll follow the map I’ve sketched for you. Stick to the route I’ve drawn—the island’s a veritable death trap. By the time I reach the burial ground you’ll already be in position in the trees, covering me. I go in, find the limb, cut out the wire, we split.”

“What about Nodding Crane?”

“He’s going to show, no way to predict when. The field around the burial site is wide open—there’s no way for him to cross it without you seeing him. When he appears, shoot him dead. Don’t mess around.”

“Not very sporting.”

“The hell with sporting. Got a problem with shooting a man in the back?’’

“Not a man like him.”

He nodded at her backpack. “You got a good sniper rifle in there like I said?”

“It’s not a sniper rifle but it’ll do, a Kel-Tec SUB-2000 nine-millimeter semi-automatic. Kevlar vest, too. What about you?”

“Two handguns, body armor—I’m ready.” Gideon pulled out a map enclosed in a ziplock bag. “You won’t have any problem finding your way, but as I said, the whole island’s an accident waiting to happen, so follow the route I marked on this map—no shortcuts. There’s a timetable here, too. Stick to it.”

“What if he’s already waiting for you in the burial trench? You step out in the field and he guns you down?”

“I’m going to cross the field in a backhoe. Two are parked in a shed beside the field, and they’re built like tanks.”

The boat puttered along, nearing the City Island Bridge and the opening to the Sound. The wind howled, whipping the relatively calm channel water into whitecaps.

“Tell me about the island.”

“The place started out as a POW camp for Civil War soldiers. A lot of them died and were buried there. New York City bought it for a public burial ground in 1869. But that only took up about half the island. The rest was used for other things at various times: a women’s lunatic asylum, boys’ workhouse, tubercularium, yellow fever quarantine, prison. During the 1950s the military used it as a base for a battery of Nike Ajax missiles, stored in silos. Now it’s uninhabited and just used for burials. But nothing’s been removed or boarded up, it was all just left to disintegrate.”

“And the burials?”

“They lay them in two parallel trenches, one for amputated limbs, the other for the, ah, complete corpses. The limbs are buried at a rate of, I figured, about seven to ten a day. Each box has two numbers: the medical file number and a sequential number added by the inmates as they bury them, so they can be located again if necessary. The body part is also tagged inside the box with the identifying information. It’s been about a week since Wu’s legs were amputated, so I figure we need to go about sixty, maybe seventy boxes back. The boxes are stacked in the trench four across and eight high, thirty-two in a row, so I figure it’ll be in the second or third row deep.”

“And then?”

Gideon patted his backpack. “I’ve got the X-rays with me. We’ll have to do a little dirty work to get the wire out.”

“When do you expect Nodding Crane to appear?”

“He’s going to be unpredictable. That’s why you’ll remain hidden throughout and only appear when he shows himself or the fight is joined. Maximize your element of surprise. You understand?”

“Perfectly. And you’ve got a plan B?”

“And C and D. The very unpredictability of the island works to our advantage.” Gideon smiled grimly. “Nodding Crane behaves like a chess player. We’re going to give him a craps game instead.”

64

As the boat entered the broad Sound, the storm hit them with a blast, raising a vicious chop that battered the hull and slopped into the boat. The lightning front was closing in, the distant booms rolling across the water like artillery.

Gideon steered the boat into the wind. “Start bailing.”

Keeping low, Mindy picked up an old Clorox-bottle bailer in the bow and began scooping up water and tossing it out. As she did so, a large wave slammed the gunwale and shoved the boat sideways, drenching them.

“My God,” Mindy said as she bailed. “This boat is like a bathtub.”

The lights of City Island wavered on the horizon, but ahead all was blackness. Gideon pulled a compass from his pocket, took a bearing, corrected course. While the chop was bad, the swell was worse, surprisingly strong for protected waters. The engine sputtered and hiccupped; if it quit, they’d be finished.

But it did not quit, and the boat pushed on through the gale, Mindy bailing almost continuously. It was not a long crossing—half a mile—but the boat was heading into the wind, moving at a crawl, and a strong current was sweeping the boat northward, past the island and out to sea.

If they missed the island, their next stop would be Execution Rocks.

Gideon took another reading and compensated for the current by heading farther south. Another wave slammed into their flank, throwing them to one side and almost swamping the small vessel. The weak engine coughed as Gideon struggled to bring the boat back into the wind.

“We’re going to drown before we even get there,” said Mindy.

But even as she spoke, the faintest outline of the island began to materialize in the dark, fringed by a dim line of breaking water. Gideon angled in toward the southern end. They were on the lee side of the island, and as they approached the dangerous swell subsided.

“Be ready to jump,” he said in a low voice, pulling a pair of night-vision goggles from his backpack and handing them to her. “Use these. No lights. Follow the timetable I laid out. Be in position at the appointed time. And for God’s sake, wait for your opportunity.”

“I’ve been at this a lot longer than you,” she said as she fitted the goggles to her head.

The surf loomed up, the chop boiling up onto a strand of large cobbles.

“Now,” he murmured.

She jumped into the surf and Gideon slammed the shift into reverse, the propeller shaft almost bucking out of the water with the effort. In a moment she had vanished into the darkness. Gideon turned back into the gale, making a loop far from shore where the boat couldn’t be seen or heard from the island. He struggled to bail and steer at the same time, the rain coming down hard, the waves smacking into the boat.

Navigating by dead reckoning, he turned northward, paralleling the eastern shore of the island, and then angled in when he felt he was nearing the island’s midpoint. As he neared the shore, he could just see the outline of the giant smokestack against the dim sky—his landmark. He picked his spot along the shore, the location of the small salt marsh, and ran the boat full speed up on the beach. He hopped out and pulled the boat into the dense marsh grass.

Crouching in the cover, he prepared himself for the trek up-island, fitting on his night-vision goggles, checking his sidearms, and giving his own map a final look. To decrease predictability, he had chosen an unlikely and inefficient route, one that went through the most dangerous and unstable areas of the ruins.

Nodding Crane would have arrived early, scouted around, and taken up position—the spider waiting for the fly. And Gideon believed, although he had not mentioned it to Mindy, that he knew exactly where that position was. There was one place on the island he himself would have chosen: a superior vantage point in all respects. If he understood Nodding Crane—and he believed he did—the man would not be able to resist occupying the strongest offensive position.

The rain was now lashing down in sheets, the booms of thunder following hard on the flashes of lightning. Another stochastic element in his favor. He checked his watch: ten thirty. He had another twenty minutes before Mindy was in position.

He crept through the sodden grass and into some heavy bayberry bushes, the goggles displaying his surroundings in a sickly green light, the rain blurring and obscuring the outline of the trees and bushes. It was like moving, half blind, through a ghostscape.

He worked his way through the heaviest brush until he came up behind a ruined building: the boys’ workhouse complex. He slipped through a broken window frame into the moldy interior, water pouring down from holes in the upper floors and the roof. The boys’ primary task had been to make shoes, and old pairs lay everywhere, thousands of them, curled up like autumn leaves, scattered about among broken glass, tools, iron shoe stands, and rotting wooden forms. He moved along the edge of the wall, gun at the ready, taking care not to step on glass.

In a moment he was in the long, echoing central corridor of the workhouse. The muffled sounds of the storm penetrated the walls.

Down the corridor, he came to the rear door, which was hanging on a single hinge. From the door, he made a quick dash through weeds into the workhouse dormitory. Passing rows of rusting iron bedsteads and graffiti-scratched walls, he paused to let an especially intense barrage of lightning and thunder pass. Each flash illuminated the interior in spectral light, the rusting bed frames casting flickering shadows onto the walls, a single graffito scratched in large letters above one bed: I WANT TO DIE.

He hurried on. At the far end of the building, he passed several small rooms heaped with broken filing cabinets, burst cardboard boxes, bundled records and file folders, soaked and rotting. A large rat, sitting on top of a heap of paper, watched him pass by.

He was soon back out in the storm, the rain harder than ever. He had gotten past the ruins and into the oldest section of burial grounds, now returned to forest. As he made his way through the densest stand of trees, he came across old grave markers sunken in leaves and vegetation, row upon row of them, delineating ancient mass graves. Here and there, bones peeped from the leaf litter and tangles of ground cover.

Keeping to the woods, he approached at last the back of the shed in which the two backhoes were stored. On his previous foray to the island, he’d noted they were almost brand-new Caterpillar 450E backhoe loaders. Earlier in the day, he’d studied how to hotwire and operate this particular model, but he’d hoped to find the keys in the ignition.

He waited, well hidden, listening and looking. Each flash of lightning allowed him a hard-edged glimpse of his surroundings, and there was no sign of Nodding Crane. Which meant nothing. He knew in his gut the man was close.

Now Gideon slowly circled the shed, keeping hidden in the surrounding cover, moving with infinite caution, examining the edge of the roof as he did so. It was made of timbers laid onto the old brick walls, and covered with corrugated tin sheets screwed to sleepers laid across the rafters. Everything was rotting, but not yet to the point of collapse.

It confirmed a key fact: the roof would support the weight of a man.

He approached the back corner of the shed, where the bricks had tumbled, leaving a hole. One quick darting move and he was through the hole, inside the shed. The two loaders glowed bright green in his goggles.

Keeping flat against the rear wall, he crept up to the closest Cat, reached up and eased open the cab door, which had been left ajar. With one quick movement he swung himself up and ducked inside, silently closing the door.

The key was in the ignition.

He checked his watch: Mindy had now been in place for at least ten minutes.

Time for round one. He set the controls, placed his hand on the key, and turned the ignition.

The machine sprang to life with a deep-throated rumble. Very good. It had an easy joystick control that almost any idiot could use, or so the literature claimed. He quickly lowered the stabilizers and raised the loader bucket into a vertical position, above the cab, as protection against what was about to happen. Then he activated the backhoe joystick controller and took a deep breath.

With a smooth movement of his fingers, he raised the massive quarter-ton bucket fast and hard, like a man pumping his fist over his head. It struck the inside of the roof with a crash, bucking it upward with a groan of rotten timbers and a shower of water. For a moment it seemed as if the whole roof would come off; then the bucket punched up through the rotting timbers and rusted tin and the roof slammed back into position with a crash, showering him with debris.

With another violent motion he jammed the bucket sideways, the boom tearing a long hole in the roof. Then he retracted it, closing the bucket on a roof beam and pulling down hard. Everything came crashing down: rotten timbers, boards and twisted pieces of corrugated tin, along with a gush of water. A couple of wild pistol shots clanged off the loader bucket, indicating he had guessed exactly right: Nodding Crane had taken position on the roof of the shed, where he not only commanded a bird’s-eye view of the burial field and the trenches, but also could fire on anyone coming for the backhoes.

Without hesitation Gideon folded the boom into traveling position, raised the stabilizers, jammed the shift into forward, and drove the machine out onto the field, swinging the loader rearward to form a shield against small-arms fire. Almost immediately, a fusillade of shots ricocheted off the back of the loader, ringing it like a bell, but protecting Gideon inside the cab.

The bastard must’ve gotten the surprise of his life when the backhoe punched through the roof. A damn shame he hadn’t broken his neck. But it proved Nodding Crane wasn’t the invulnerable, all-seeing killing machine Garza had described.

Gideon drove the backhoe across the muddy field at full throttle. The fire from behind grew more accurate, bullets snapping through the roof of the cab, spraying him with plastic and insulation. He crouched low, driving blind as more bullets blew holes in the windshield. The loader couldn’t provide one hundred percent cover.

He ducked up briefly to check his position, saw he was almost there. Two more bullets went past, one practically parting his hair. Another moment—and then Gideon halted the machine, flung open the door, and jumped out, taking a flying leap from the edge of the trench and falling over the lip. He tumbled down and landed in a wallow of mud and water at its bottom, then scrabbled back up to the rim, sweeping the field with his night vision. The shooting had finally stopped.

He had possession of the trench; Mindy had not yet revealed herself; his adversary had miscalculated and—with any luck—might even be hurt.

A feeling of something like euphoria swept over Gideon. So far, he was kicking Nodding Crane’s ass.

65

He turned his attention to the exposed wall of boxes. Down here in the trench, he was safe from fire—and Mindy, he hoped, was in position in the trees, ready to take down Nodding Crane if he tried to advance over the field. Nevertheless, there was no time to waste. He pulled off the goggles, stuffed them in his backpack, donned a headlamp, and switched it on. A wall of pine boxes greeted his eye, ten boxes high and five wide. Once fresh, the little coffins were already streaked with mud. Lightning split the sky and the rain continued to pour down. The stench was almost unbearable: it reminded Gideon of a combination of rotting meat, dirty socks, and liquid cheese.

He examined the numbers of the top row: 695-1078 MSH, 695-1077 SLHD, 695-1076 BGH. He thought: 1076 minus 998 equals 78. So Wu’s legs would be seventy-eight boxes back. A quick glance told him the number he was looking for wasn’t in the exposed row of boxes. He yanked a pickax out of his pack and swung it at a box at the bottom of the row, piercing it with the point. Prying the box from the wall, he caused the entire row to come toppling down with a crash, many of the boxes breaking open, decaying arms and legs flying everywhere, tags fluttering. The stench rose up like a wet fog.

The collapse of the front row exposed the next wall of coffins. He examined them with the light but most were covered with mud, the numbers obscured. He began wiping them off, one at a time, and examining the numbers.

As he worked, he suddenly heard an ominous sound: the second backhoe firing up. That was when he realized his mistake: he had left the keys in the other machine.

A roar told him the backhoe was out of the garage and coming down the field at full speed.

He put on the goggles and scrambled back up to the lip of the trench. The second backhoe was approaching, mud flying, wheels churning, bucket raised like the stinger of a scorpion. Nodding Crane had positioned the loader in front as a shield, using it just as Gideon had.

He had perhaps a minute before it arrived.

There was only one thing to do. Grasping a root at the edge of the trench, Gideon pulled himself out and scrambled into his own backhoe, still idling nearby. A volley of bullets tore through the cab as he lowered the loader, protecting him but blinding him at the same time.

He adjusted the loader so he could just see the top edge and then headed directly for the other backhoe, throttle shoved in forward, twenty tons of steel lumbering down the muddy field. He jammed his backpack on the accelerator, keeping it floored, so he could stand up and lean out with his Beretta, squeezing off a few shots. But his shots weren’t accurate and the rounds clanged harmlessly off the shovel of the approaching Cat. They were closing fast on a collision course, each moving twenty miles an hour. Nodding Crane returned fire with his more accurate weapon, sending Gideon scrambling back for cover.

They were now fifteen, maybe twenty seconds from collision. Gideon braced himself for the impact, frantically buckling himself in, his mind calculating a hundred possible responses to follow.

The collision came with a tremendous jolt, a deafening clash of steel against steel, throwing him forward, buckling his cab and shattering the already-holed windshield. He instantly threw the machine into reverse, backing and turning frantically as he fingered the joystick controller. Nodding Crane was doing the same with his backhoe, the wheels churning as he maneuvered into position.

Gideon extended the boom and, wielding the backhoe bucket like a club, pivoted it sideways at the other machine’s cab; the quarter-ton piece of steel swung around with a whine of hydraulics. But Nodding Crane anticipated the move, raising his own backhoe to block it, and the two booms struck each other with a violent, deafening crash.

The blow knocked Gideon’s backhoe sideways, spraying hydraulic fluid, and almost immediately a fusillade of shots tore through his cab. One struck the Kevlar vest that covered his chest, kicking him back, knocking his wind out.

Gasping for breath, struggling with the controls, Gideon saw the blow had by chance rotated his machine back into a striking position; he raised the bucket and brought it down hard on the other machine’s cab; but again the assassin saw it coming and lurched forward, striking Gideon’s machine with his own loader and tipping him back. Gideon’s bucket glanced off the corner of the cab with a spray of sparks and he frantically worked the controls, throwing out the stabilizers, trying to keep his backhoe from tipping over.

Nodding Crane raised his loader higher, readying it for a violent blow. As he did so he exposed himself. Gideon dropped the controls and, firing with both hands, emptied the Beretta into Nodding Crane’s cab, the rounds blowing out the glass windows and turning the interior into a flurry of broken plastic. But Nodding Crane had dropped to the floor, behind the protection of the lowered loader, an angle Gideon couldn’t target.

Seizing the controls again, Gideon jammed the accelerator forward, ramming the other machine while raising the backhoe to smash the other’s cab. Nodding Crane blocked the move by raising his loader, and they clashed with a shower of sparks. At the same time, he extended his bucket high on its boom, then brought it down on Gideon’s cab with a terrific crunch, half-collapsing the cab in a burst of crackling metal and plastic, sprung wires and insulation.

Gideon threw himself to the floor, avoiding being pulverized at the very last moment. But his backhoe was now useless, the seat crushed, the controls gone. And he could hear Nodding Crane lifting his bucket for another massive blow. He had to get out.

He threw himself against the buckled door. It wouldn’t open.

Nodding Crane’s bucket came down with another shuddering crash, almost trapping Gideon in the wreckage, but when it lifted a tooth caught on part of the frame and tore open a hole in the tangled cab. Seeing his chance, Gideon dove through the hole, simultaneously pulling out the Taurus and firing up at Nodding Crane. He landed in the muck, rolled. Nodding Crane raised the bucket again, obviously intending to crush him like a bug. Gideon struggled to his feet and ran for the cover of the trench, fifty yards away.

A flurry of shots kicked up the mud around him and one slammed into his Kevlar-covered back, knocking him down. He wallowed in the muck, unable to rise, pain ripping through him. He could see more shots walking along the ground, sweeping toward him, and then he heard the roar of the backhoe as it bore down on him, full speed. He would never make the cover of the trench…

…And then he heard a distant pop pop pop from the trees and the clang of bullets on metal. Mindy. The shots drew Nodding Crane’s fire away, forcing him to halt the backhoe and turn it to cover himself. Gideon seized the opportunity to struggle to his feet and stagger toward the trench, diving in.

He turned and started firing from the lip of the trench, raking Nodding Crane. Magazine empty, he reloaded with trembling hands and slammed it back into place, maintaining a steady fire.

The crossfire hemmed in Nodding Crane. He swung the loader around, trying to use it as a shield, but was unable to effectively block fire from two directions as the rounds tore through his cab. He backed the machine with a furious diesel roar, retreating across the field, moving out of handgun range. Gideon stopped firing and used the moment to once again reload the Beretta. As he did so he saw Mindy’s dark figure come running across the field, firing while she ran. He emptied his magazine, covering her, and a moment later she leapt into the trench as more gunfire erupted from the far end of the field.

“You’re supposed to stay in the trees!” he yelled over the storm.

“You need covering fire while you find the leg.”

Gideon realized she was right.

She positioned herself at the lip, firing steadily, the return fire kicking dirt off the edge of the trench or slamming into the walls of the trench behind them. Gideon quickly turned back to the wall of boxes, shining his light on each one in turn, frantically wiping off the mud. And there it was, halfway down: 695-998 MSH.

“Got it!” he exclaimed.

“Hurry!” Mindy kept firing from the edge of the trench.

He frantically pulled the covering boxes down, throwing them to one side, until he had exposed the right one. Grasping it by the edges, he hauled it free. Both his chest and back throbbed violently at the effort: the shots had broken a rib, maybe two. Raising the pickax, he swung it full-force into the lid, splitting it. With another fierce motion he ripped the pieces away and then probed inside with his light.

“Son of a bitch!” he cried. “It’s an arm!”

66

Gideon grabbed the tab tied to one finger, read off the patient data. MUKULSKI, ANNA, ST. LUKE’S DOWNTOWN 659346C-41. ���These bastards mixed up the body parts!” he cried.

“Keep looking!” Mindy yelled back.

She ducked as more bullets raked the lip of the trench, showering them both with mud.

Gideon surveyed the jumble of boxes, chose one at random, swung his pick at it and ripped off the lid, spilling out what appeared to be a diseased lung. Kicking it aside, he attacked another box, then another, ripping open the lids, ignoring all but the legs and reading the tags on those. Many of the boxes had broken open in the confusion and he sorted through the piles of body parts and less recognizable organs, checking the tags and putting the rejects aside. They had been days, even weeks, in the warm summer ground, and most of them were rotting, soft, bloated.

“He’s returning with the backhoe,” Mindy said.

“Keep him at bay!” Gideon pushed the discarded offal to one side of the trench and with his pick toppled another series of boxes, ripping off their lids. More arms and legs tumbled out, a veritable charnel pit.

“Sorry, guys,” he muttered under his breath.

“He’s coming! I can’t stop him—he’s got his loader up!”

“Find me time!” Frantically, Gideon sorted through the limbs, reading the tags, shoving the discards aside. And then, there they were: two legs, almost completely crushed, in the same box with a tag that read: WU, MARK. SINAI 659347A-44.

“Got it!” He hauled the left leg out of the box, laid it on a plank of wood. It was so rotten, it separated at the knee. But it was the thigh he needed. He yanked the box cutter out of his backpack and pulled out the X-rays. Laying his flashlight down, he held up the X-rays, compared them with the leg, identifying the place to cut.

“For God’s sake, hurry! He’s dropped his loader and he’s pushing a wall of dirt toward us! I can’t fire through it!”

Gideon drew a deep breath. Then he sank the cutter into the flesh and drew a long line; retracted the scalpel; drew another parallel line a centimeter away; then another. The wire was just beneath the surface, but the leg was so mangled, so rotten, and so full of debris from the accident that it was hard to identify the correct place to cut.

“Hurry!” Mindy screamed.

He could hear the roar of the backhoe approaching, the deep vibration in the ground.

Another long cut, this one at a ninety-degree angle.

“Oh my God!” She was firing almost continuously. The roar was almost on top of them.

The scalpel was deflected by something. Gideon reached in with his fingers, grasped it, drew it out: a heavy piece of wire, bent in a U shape, about a centimeter long.

“Got it!” He shoved it in his pocket.

But the roar was now on top of them. An enormous pile of dirt, mingled with bones, crashed down on them like a tidal wave, knocking Gideon to the ground and burying Mindy. Her scream was abruptly cut off as blackness rose to meet him…

Gideon swam back into consciousness buried almost up to his chest, pinned in a mess of muck and water. He could feel his broken ribs grinding against each other. He shook the dirt away from his head, sucked in air, tried to pull himself out.

A heavy boot came down slowly on his neck, pressing him into the mud. “Not so fast, my friend,” came the cool, accentless voice. “Give me the wire.”

Gideon lay there, breathing hard. “Help her. She’s buried—”

The boot jammed his neck and the voice said, “Don’t worry about her. Worry about yourself.”

“She’s suffocating!”

Nodding Crane dangled the tag from Wu’s leg in front of him. “I know you have the wire. Give it to me.” A hand searched his shirt pocket, pushing away dirt. Feeling through the dirt, the hand located the Beretta and the Taurus. The box cutter came next.

“Let me up, for God’s sake!”

The boot came off his neck and Nodding Crane stepped back, night-vision goggles swinging around his neck. “Get yourself out. Slowly.”

Gideon tried to crawl out from under the dirt. “The shovel,” he gasped.

Nodding Crane picked up Gideon’s shovel and tossed it over.

Frantically, Gideon shoveled away the dirt, wincing with pain. Finally he got enough of the weight from his lower body to allow himself the use of his legs. He shook off the dirt and dragged himself free. Rising to his feet, he took a shuddering breath, then immediately attacked the slide of dirt that had buried Mindy.

“The wire,” Nodding Crane said, jamming his gun—a TEC-9—against Gideon’s head.

“For God’s sake, we’ve got to dig her out!”

“You’re a fool.” Nodding Crane struck him a lashing blow across the head with the butt of his gun, wrenched the shovel from his hand, and screwed the barrel of the TEC-9 into his ear. “The wire.”

“Fuck you.”

“I will take it from your dead body, then.” He gave the warm muzzle of the pistol another screw into Gideon’s ear and whispered, “Good-bye.”

67

Manuel Garza, dressed in a frayed Department of Sanitation uniform he’d appropriated from the vast wardrobes of EES, walked along the bicycle path that circled the north end of Meadow Lake. In the distance, he could hear the hum of the Van Wyck Expressway. It was past eleven; the joggers, bikers, and mothers with strollers had gone home hours ago, and the sloops on the lake were tied in their berths.

With the retractable trash spear he held in one hand, he jabbed at a stray piece of rubbish and stuck it into the plastic bag hanging from his utility belt. Cover like this had been much easier back in the 1980s, when New York had been a filthy place. These days, with the city squeaky-clean, park sanitation crews weren’t nearly as invisible as they had once been. He considered that EES should brainstorm some new covers: commuters, maybe, or homeless persons, or marathon trainers.

He speared another piece of trash, his expression darkening. The thought of EES brought Eli Glinn back to his mind. No matter how long he worked for the guy, Garza had never understood him. Every time Garza thought that age had mellowed the man, or a particularly onerous op had reformed him, Eli Glinn went and proved him wrong. You could just never predict what he’d do—or wouldn’t do. Like that time in Lithuania, when he’d threatened to detonate the nuclear device because the client refused to make final payment. He hadn’t been kidding, either, he’d actually started the arming sequence before the client capitulated. Or that fateful expedition in Tierra del Fuego, when they were under pursuit and Glinn had blown up an iceberg to…

He shook that particular memory from his mind and turned away from the lake, heading back to the electric Parks Department cart that sat nearby. Just this morning, after the encounter on the subway train, Glinn had refused Garza’s request that they assign several teams to shadow Crew during the final stage of his mission. Glinn listened carefully, then simply shook his head. “We’re not doing that,” he’d said.

We’re not doing that. Garza rolled his eyes. A typical Glinn answer, containing no reasons, no explanation. Just fiat.

He eased himself into the cart, put the trash spear away, and unlocked a metal equipment locker bolted into one wall of the vehicle. He made a quick visual inventory of the contents: nine-millimeter Glock with silencer, sawed-off shotgun, taser, police radio, night-vision goggles, emergency paramedic kit, half a dozen federal, state, and local ID badges in assorted sizes. Satisfied, he closed the locker, then eased the cart north, toward the Queens Museum of Art.

Glinn had nixed assigning teams to Gideon Crew. So Garza had come here on his own initiative. This was a critical mission, a world-altering mission. There was no way Garza was going to let Crew go it alone—especially when somebody as dangerous as Nodding Crane was involved.

The Unisphere, Crew had said. Garza could see it ahead in the distance: a huge, gleaming silver globe, fringed at its base by fountains, on the far side of the Long Island Expressway. The problem was, Crew hadn’t said whether they were meeting right at the Unisphere, or just somewhere in the general vicinity. The fact that the damn thing was located smack in the middle of Flushing Meadows Corona Park—the second largest park in New York City—didn’t make Garza’s job any easier. If it had been up to him, he’d have had police, real and imitation; EMS workers, public and private; snipers, fire-suppression teams, hijacking specialists, getaway drivers, journalist interdictors, and a partridge and a pear tree, all fanned out through the park in carefully assigned locations. As it was, he was alone and had his work cut out for him.

It had made absolutely no sense right from the get-go. Why assign such an important mission to someone like Crew: untested, unproven? Glinn could have selected any number of operatives who had proven themselves under fire. It just wasn’t right to pick a screwup like Crew, someone who hadn’t made his bones, who hadn’t started small, worked his way up through the ranks—the way that, say, Garza himself had. Gideon Crew was impulsive; he operated on anger and adrenaline more than steely-eyed caution. Garza was a pretty levelheaded guy, but the very thought made irritation bubble up in him like so much acid.

He glanced at his watch again: eleven thirty. Ahead, the Unisphere glowed against the night sky like a streaking meteor. Not much time—he’d do one last reconnoiter, then pick the optimal spot from which to monitor the unfolding situation. He pointed the cart toward the vast globe and pushed down hard on the accelerator.

68

Gideon knew he was going to die but felt absolutely nothing. At least this way would be quicker and less painful.

There was a sudden yell and a fusillade of shots. Turning toward the sound, Gideon saw a monstrous apparition—a form covered in mud—erupting from the slide of dirt, firing and screaming like a banshee. Nodding Crane was punched violently back by the bullets. He sprayed return fire wildly as he went down.

“I’m out of ammo!” she screamed, tossing the rifle aside and scrabbling in the muck for her handgun.

Gideon fell on Nodding Crane, grasping the man’s gun and trying to wrench it from his hands, hoping he was dead. But he was not—it seemed he, too, had body protection. The two wallowed in the muck, locked in a struggle for the TEC-9. But Nodding Crane was incredibly strong and he threw Gideon off, bringing his weapon up.

Mindy swung in with a board, attempting to slam it against Nodding Crane’s head, but the assassin pirouetted away, deflecting the blow with his shoulder and raising his weapon unsteadily.

Gideon staggered back, realizing they had only one option now: to get away. “Out!” he cried.

Mindy leapt over the lip of the trench as Gideon followed. Another burst came from the TEC-9, but they were already racing across the field in the blackness of the storm and the rounds went wild.

For a moment the sky was split by an immense blast of lightning, followed by the roar of thunder.

“Bastard’s reloading,” Mindy gasped as they ran, reaching the line of trees as a fresh burst of fire ripped through the leaves around them, spraying them with vegetation. They crashed through the undergrowth, running until they could run no more.

“Your weapon?” Gideon gasped.

“Lost it. Got my backup.” She pulled out a military-issue Colt .45. “The wire?”

“In my pocket.”

“We’ve got to keep moving.” She turned and headed south at a jog, Gideon following, pushing away the pain as best he could. He had lost his night-vision goggles and flashlight in the fight, and they were moving in pitch black, blundering through the woods, thrashing aside heavy brush and brambles. He had no doubt Nodding Crane was following.

“This isn’t going to work,” gasped Gideon. “He’s got night vision. We need to get out in the open where we can see.”

“Right,” said Mindy.

“Follow me.” Recalling the map, Gideon headed due east. The woods thinned and they passed through another field of bones, their feet crunching over skulls half-hidden under the leaves, and emerged at a broad, overgrown road with long, low buildings along one side: the boys’ workhouse complex. There was just enough light coming from the southern sky—the lights of New York City—for them to see. Gideon broke into a run and Mindy did the same.

“Where’s the boat?” she gasped.

“Near the beach by the smokestack,” he said.

A sudden burst of fire came at them from behind, and Gideon instinctively threw himself down. Mindy landed beside him, rolled, returned fire with the .45. There was a sharp scream, then silence.

“I got him!” she said.

“I doubt it. He’s a wily bastard.”

Scrambling to their feet again, they ran for the ruined dormitories, leaping over a shattered doorway. Gideon kept going, running almost blind through one ruined room after another, tripping over mangled bed frames and broken plaster. Coming out the far end, he took a sudden turn into the ruined chapel, ran its length, leapt out the broken rose window at the end, then doubled back.

“What are we doing?” Mindy called softly from behind. “You said the boat was the other way—”

“Random is what we’re doing. We need to lose him, go to ground.”

Gasping, ribs on fire, he led the way through a dense stand of woods toward the opposite shore, moving more slowly now, trying to be as silent as possible. The trees thinned and they stepped out onto the overgrown baseball field he had seen earlier, bleachers covered with vines and trees, the diamond having vanished under a riot of weeds and saplings.

They pushed through the field. Gideon stopped and listened. The wind howled, the rain came down in stinging sheets—it was impossible to hear.

“I’m pretty sure we lost him,” Mindy whispered, digging rounds out of her pocket and reloading. She nodded at the bleachers. “That looks like a good place.”

Gideon nodded. On their hands and knees, they crawled under the old bleachers. They were covered with a heavy mat of vegetation; within, it was like a cave. The rain drummed on the metal seats above.

“He’ll never find us here,” she said.

Gideon shook his head. “He’ll eventually find us anywhere. We’ll wait for a bit, then make a dash for the boat. It’s not that far.”

He listened. Over the roar of the storm he could hear the sound of the surf in the distance.

“I think I really did hit him back there.”

Gideon didn’t answer, thinking instead of the route they now had to take to get to the boat. He had no confidence that Nodding Crane had been hit—or that they’d shaken him.

“You don’t have a light or the map?” he asked.

“Everything was in my pack. All I saved was the gun.”

“How did you get out of the dirt?”

“It was loose and I wasn’t far under the surface. You shoveled off most of the weight. Give me the wire.”

“For God’s sake,” he hissed, “we’ll deal with that later.”

The gun came around and pointed at him. Mindy rose slowly, taking a step back. “I said, give me the wire.”

For a moment, Gideon’s mind went black as he stared at the gun. And then he recalled Nodding Crane’s comment. You’re a fool. It had seemed like a random insult at the time. But now, too late, he realized that nothing Nodding Crane said or did was random.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

“Just give me the wire.”

“Who are you? You’re not CIA.”

“I was. They didn’t pay worth shit.”

“So you’re freelance.”

She smiled. “Sort of. I’m doing this particular job for OPEC.”

“OPEC?”

“Yeah. And I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure out where OPEC comes in.”

“No,” he said, buying time.

“What do you think that piece of wire would do to their business? You could kiss the petroleum market good-bye. Along with the gas-powered car. So give me the wire, big boy. I really don’t want to kill you, Gideon, but I will if you don’t do what I say.”

“So how much are they paying you?”

“Ten million.”

“You sold yourself short.” He thought back to Hong Kong, how she’d just happened to have a diplomatic embosser in her bag. That alone should have made him suspicious. He recalled how she always seemed to be working alone, no backup, no partner. Very un-CIA.

Nodding Crane was right—he’d been a fool.

She stuck out her hand. Of course, she might kill him anyway. But maybe, just maybe, the memory of their time together would stop her…He reached into his pocket and handed her the wire.

“That’s a good boy.” Still covering him, she held it up, scrutinizing it. Then she balled it in her fist and took fresh aim.

“Wow,” she said. “I’m really sorry to do this.”

And Gideon realized she meant it: she truly was sorry. But she was going to do it anyway.

He closed his eyes.

69

A single shot rang out from the darkness. Gideon felt nothing: no pain, no impact of a bullet. His eyes flew open. At first, nothing seemed to have changed. Then he saw the blank look on Mindy’s face, the clean bullet hole between her eyes. For a moment she stood there. Then she toppled backward into the dirt.

Gideon snatched the wire from her twitching hand and ran.

More shots ripped through the seats, spraying him with wood chips and vegetation. He burst out the rear of the bleachers and made a beeline for the boat. It was his only chance for survival.

Ahead stretched the post-Armageddon suburban neighborhood. He sprinted down the leafy, ruined streets, turned a corner, then another. He could hear Nodding Crane pounding along behind him, slowly catching up.

To go into a house would mean being trapped. He couldn’t outrun his enemy. And he realized now he was never going to make the boat.

He doubled back at the next street, turning corners to keep from giving his pursuer a clear field of fire. He had no gun, no way of defending himself. He should have taken Mindy’s .45, but it was either that or the wire—there hadn’t been time for both.

Nodding Crane was gaining steadily. And Gideon was gasping so hard it felt as if his broken ribs would puncture his lungs. What now?

The last street ended. Ahead lay the open field adjacent to the Dynamo Room. He’d been here before. This was the area the guard had carefully detoured around. That field’s off-limits, he’d said. There’s a lot of places on the island that are dangerous.

What was the danger here? Maybe this was an opportunity. It sure as hell was his last chance.

He sprinted across the field, zigzagging as he went. He could hear Nodding Crane still closing the gap, not bothering to stop and fire but instead using the opportunity to get close enough so that he couldn’t miss. Gideon glanced back: sure enough, there was the running figure, only fifty yards away now.

Halfway across the field Gideon realized he had made a serious mistake. He would never make it to the other side and there was nothing here that offered any chance of escape, no unexpected danger, no evidence of pits or old structures. Just a big damn open field without cover. The ground was solid and level. It was a race—and Nodding Crane was the faster runner.

He glanced back, his legs churning. Nodding Crane was now only thirty yards behind.

As Gideon turned his head toward the unattainable far end of the field, his eye caught the monstrous, crumbling smokestack rising from the Dynamo Room. Abruptly, he understood. The danger wasn’t in the field itself—it was that smokestack. It was old and unstable. That was the reason the guard had detoured: the damn stack looked like it might fall at any moment.

An old iron stairway spiraled up to the top.

He veered off, running toward the smokestack. Clawing his way through the undergrowth, he reached its base. He hesitated just a moment: this was a one-way trip to nowhere.

Fuck it.

He leapt onto the rusting stairs and began climbing. A trio of shots sounded from behind, smacking the bricks around him, spraying him with chips and dust. But the stairs spiraled around the curve of the stack, providing cover.

The stairway was old and rusted, and as Gideon climbed it rumbled and screeched, sagging and swaying with his every step, the rust raining down on him from the sudden strain. A step broke and he seized the railing, swinging briefly out into space before recovering, grasping the next step and hauling himself back up.

As he continued, climbing recklessly higher and higher, he heard a groan of metal below and felt a new vibration. Nodding Crane was coming up after him.

Naturally. This was a stupid move. Nodding Crane would chase him to the top and then shoot him from below.

As Gideon mounted higher, he could feel the stack vibrating in the buffeting winds, with an accompanying grinding and crackling sound of crumbling mortar.

Now the true insanity of what he had done began to hit home. The storm was shaking the entire stack, which felt like it was going to collapse at any moment. There was no outcome he could imagine in which he survived this chase to the top.

A single shot rang out, the bullet snipping the railing by his hand. He scrambled upward faster, keeping the turning of the staircase as cover. A flash of lightning illuminated the ghastly scene: the island, the ruins, the crumbling stack, the rotten stair, the storm-tossed sea beyond.

“Crew!” came a call from below. “Crew!” Nodding Crane’s peculiar, flat voice pierced the howling wind.

He paused, listening. The stack groaned, crackled, swayed in the wind.

“You’re trapped, you fool! Bring me down the wire and I’ll let you live!”

Gideon resumed his climb. Another shot rang out, but it went wild and he knew Nodding Crane must be having a hell of a time firing accurately, given the swaying of the stack, the howling wind and rain. And there was something else: he thought he detected a note of fear in Nodding Crane’s voice. And no wonder. That was progress of a kind. Strangely, Gideon felt no fear himself. This was the end—there was no way he was coming down off this smokestack alive. What did it matter? He was already a dead man.

The thought gave him a strange feeling of relief. That had been his secret weapon, the one Nodding Crane was unaware of: he was a man living on borrowed time.

As he climbed higher, heavier wind gusts boomed around him, so strong at times that they almost tore him from the stairway. Another lightning bolt split the sky, the crash of thunder following instantaneously. He heard a screech of metal as a section of the stairway detached from the stack, the bolts popping loose like gunfire, and the detached section swung out over the void, with Gideon clinging to the railing. He gripped the metal with all his might as the wind swung him back, slamming him against the bricks. The iron held until the wild oscillations of the stair finally calmed down. He found purchase, his feet back on the shaking iron steps, and resumed climbing.

He looked up as lightning flashed. He was about halfway to the top.

He had to go on, to prevent his weight from remaining too long on any one rotten step, while simultaneously keeping to the far side of the stack from Nodding Crane.

“Crew!” came the shout from below. “This is suicide!”

“For both of us!” Gideon screamed back. And it was suicide. Whether the smokestack fell or not, he couldn’t go back down that stair; it was too damaged now, and besides, he was trapped by Nodding Crane. He had no weapon. Once he reached the top Nodding Crane would close in on him and that would be it.

“Crew! You’re crazy!”

“You can count on it!”

The stack shuddered under a particularly fierce gust, and a fresh shower of bricks rained down. He pressed himself against the side of the stack as they clattered and bounced off the stairs. He looked down but Nodding Crane was out of sight around the curve of the stack. The lightning was now almost continuous, providing a glimpse every few seconds.

He looked up. He was almost at the top now. A narrow iron catwalk circled the rim of the great chimney, half of its braces gone. It slanted perilously to one side. He pressed on, one foot after the other, clinging to the railing with all his might.

Quite suddenly he was at the top, in the howling storm. He crawled through a hole onto the platform grate, clinging hard because of the slant. Bricks had broken away from the lip, giving it the look of ragged black teeth. The top of the stack was covered by a heavy grate to trap fly ash, and two brass dampers stood open, like giant bat wings. A strange hollow moaning rose up from inside the stack, as if out of the throat of some primitive, antediluvian monster.

There was nowhere to go.

One of us will die on Hart Island. That is the way you planned it and that is the way it must be.

70

Laughter echoed up. “End of the line!” came the voice from below, suddenly sarcastic.

What now? Gideon had gone up the stack blindly, with no plan.

A gust struck, and the top of the smokestack swayed, more bricks crumbling and popping off the edge. At this rate, the whole damn stack could collapse at any minute.

Suddenly he had an idea. Working a brick loose, he peered down, waiting for the next bolt of lightning.

It arrived with a boom of thunder, illuminating Nodding Crane, clinging to the ladder about fifty feet below. Gideon hustled around and threw the brick into the void.

A fusillade of shots followed, punching holes through the metal platform, and Gideon almost fell off in his effort to get back. More laughter echoed up.

Dropping bricks on Nodding Crane was a waste—he was easily able to dodge them with his night-vision goggles, while Gideon had to wait for a flash of lightning. He would only get himself shot.

The wind cut around the open dampers, making a singing noise. He peered down the interior of the smokestack, but it was so dark he could see nothing. It muttered and groaned restlessly. The wind blasted across the top, the iron platform shaking, and the stack swayed. The damn thing really was about to fall.

About to fall…

For some reason, an image of Orchid formed in his mind. You’re in some kind of trouble, aren’t you? Why don’t you let me help you? Why do you keep pushing me away?

He looked at the damper system. It was all brass and still in good condition, a long lever operating a set of gears that raised and lowered the semicircular dampers. Grasping the lever, Gideon pulled on it. The heavy dampers creaked and shuddered but appeared frozen in place. He gave the lever a hard yank: still nothing. Grasping the platform with both hands, he raised his foot and gave the lever a kick.

The lever flipped up and the dampers fell shut with a massive boom, sending a shock wave vibrating down the entire length of the smokestack. A dozen bricks peeled off the top, dropping into blackness, and the stack rocked violently.

“What are you doing?” Nodding Crane cried from below, his disembodied voice filled with horror.

A grim smile briefly crossed Gideon’s features.

Grasping the handle, crouching on the trembling platform, he leaned in with all his might and forced the dampers open again, the bass wheels turning, flaking verdigris. The two dampers rose back up like a drawbridge.

He pulled the lever and dropped them again.

This crash sent an even more violent shudder down the smokestack. A flurry of crackling, grinding noises came up the flue as the entire stack shook.

“You’re insane!” cried Nodding Crane. A flash of lightning revealed that he was now just below the lip of the platform and Gideon could hear his heavy gasps, the iron stairway groaning with his steps. He was amazed the man had the courage to get so far. Bizarrely, he could see fingerpicks gleaming on the fingers of Nodding Crane’s right hand.

Gideon forced the dampers open again. “Say good night!” he yelled, letting the lever drop again with a thunderous boom.

“No!”

He forced the dampers open once more, dropped them again—and this time the entire stack seemed to shift on its rotten base. A grinding noise came from far below.

“You fool!” In a flash of lightning Gideon got a glimpse of Nodding Crane gripping the stairway twenty feet below—clearly terrified—and now descending.

A maniacal laugh erupted from Gideon. “Who’s the fool?” he shouted. “I’m the one who’s not afraid to die! You should have stayed down there, waited me out!”

He let the dampers crash shut again. The platform shuddered, tilted abruptly with the crack of snapping steel, and Gideon began to slide. He seized the damper lever and held on. With a great popping of iron stays, the platform leaned sideways, the wind catching it like a sail and jamming it over; with a final screech it broke loose and plunged down into the darkness, leaving Gideon clinging to the brass lever at the ruined mouth of the chimney, his legs dangling in space.

Another flash of lightning. Nodding Crane was descending the ladder as fast as he could. If he reached the bottom, Gideon would lose his chance at revenge. And he would still die.

With a strength he didn’t know he had, he hoisted himself up and swung his leg over the lever. From there he was able to climb onto the rim of the smokestack, clinging to the ash grating. He could feel it shifting and moving beneath him, the grinding noise rising in volume up the flue. Something was happening and it sounded like a runaway process of failure. He brought down the dampers again with another mighty crash, sending one more shock wave down the stack.

With a strange grinding, moaning noise, the immense stack listed one way, then the other, pausing, stopping—and then, in extremely slow motion, it began to lean more and more away from the direction of the wind.

This time it didn’t move back to vertical. It continued to lean, the wind pushing it over. The top shook violently, once, twice.

“Nooo!” came a scream from below.

There was a rumble of bricks splitting and grinding under the shifting weight of the smokestack. It was going over, no question about it. Both of them would die. Gideon only hoped his end would be quick.

A crack of livid lightning exposed Nodding Crane. He wasn’t quite halfway down.

“This is for Orchid, you bastard!” Gideon screamed down into the darkness.

The stack leaned out, falling faster, gathering speed. Another arc of lightning cut the sky, illuminating the turbulent sea below.

And that was when Gideon realized all was not lost. The stack was falling toward the water.

Faster and faster it fell, the wind roaring in his ears, as he clung to the lever, riding the crumbling smokestack down. His senses were assaulted by the deafening thunder of the collapsing structure; the air that rushed in his ears; the howling wind; the approaching roar of the sea. Through the flickers of lightning he could see the lower sections of the smokestack exploding against the ground in a running cloud of bricks, drawing a line of ruin in the direction of the water. As the sea came rushing up, Gideon braced himself. Just before the mouth of the stack crashed into the sea he leapt up and out, shedding some of his downward momentum while stiffening his body and clenching his stomach muscles and hands, seeking to hit the water in a rigid, vertical position.

He struck with tremendous force and was instantly plunged deep. He quickly spread out his legs and arms, slowing, then stopping, his descent into the depths. Then he swam upward, struggling in the chill water. Up and up he went, but the surface seemed too far to reach.

Just when he thought his lungs would burst, he broke through, gasping and heaving, sucking in air, treading water in the teeth of the storm. All was blackness. But then, as he rose on a swell, he could just make out the lights of City Island, and that oriented him.

Treading water, he tried to recover his breath, his strength. Then he struck out for the cobbled beach and his boat, swimming through the violent, heaving seas, the water breaking over his head and forcing him under every few seconds. His broken ribs were like veins of fire in his chest. But he kept on, the darkness complete, the boom and roar of the storm all around him like a violent womb. What little strength remained was rapidly ebbing. It would be ironic, he thought, if he survived all this only to drown.

But he was going to drown. He could hardly move his arms and legs anymore. He couldn’t keep his head above water. A big wave shoved him under and he realized he just didn’t have the strength to struggle back up.

That was when his feet struck the underwater cobbles of the beach and he was able to stand.

He didn’t know how long he lay on the beach or even how he found the strength to crawl above the booming surf. But he came back into consciousness on the high part of the strand. Next to him he could see the shattered mass of the great smokestack lying across the beach and going down to the water. Pulverized bricks lay everywhere, amid pieces of twisted metal.

Metal. He clasped at his pocket in sudden fear. The wire was still there.

Dragging himself to his hands and knees, he crawled over the rubble, using the lightning as his guide. There, after a brief search, he found the body of Nodding Crane nestled among the broken bricks, not five feet from the sea. In his fear, he had tried to descend. And that was what had killed him: he struck the ground instead of the water.

The body was a hideous, pulped mess.

Gideon crawled away and—finally—managed to rise to his feet. With a sense of emptiness, of utter physical and spiritual exhaustion, he stumbled away from the crushed remains of the smokestack to the salt marsh where he had hidden his boat.

He still had one very important thing left to do.

Epilogue

Gideon Crew followed Garza into the confines of the EES building on Little West 12th Street. Garza had said nothing, but Gideon could feel anger emanating from the man as if from a heat lamp.

The interior of EES looked unchanged: the same rows of tables covered with exotic models and scientific equipment; the same technicians and lab workers shuttling busily from here to there. Once again, Gideon wondered whom he was really working for. His phone call to DHS had confirmed, beyond doubt, that Glinn and his outfit were legit. But it nevertheless seemed surpassing strange.

They entered the spare conference room on the fourth floor. Glinn sat again at the head of the table, his one good eye as gray as a London sky.

Nobody said anything. Gideon took a seat without being asked, and Garza did the same.

“Well,” said Glinn, his one eye making a slow blink that seemed to give Garza permission to speak.

“Eli,” said Garza, his voice quiet but tense, “before we start I wish to protest in the most vigorous terms the way Crew here conducted himself on this assignment. Almost from the beginning he ignored our instructions. In every meeting he lied to me, repeatedly, and in the end he went rogue. He lied about where the confrontation was taking place, took an enormous risk, and created a huge potential problem for us on Hart Island.”

Another slow blink. “Tell me about the Hart Island problem.”

“Fortunately,” said Garza, “we were able to pinch it off.” He slapped that morning’s copy of the Post on the table. The headline screamed VANDALS STRIKE POTTER’S FIELD, TWO DEAD.

“Summarize.”

“The article says that Hart Island was struck by vandals last night. They stole a boat from City Island, tore up a bunch of graves, desecrated human remains, and vandalized some equipment. And then one of the vandals took it upon himself to climb the smokestack, which fell in the storm, killing him. He hasn’t yet been identified. Another one, a woman, was shot and killed by persons unknown. The others escaped and are being sought by police.”

“Excellent,” said Glinn. “Mr. Garza, once again you have proven your usefulness to this organization.”

“No thanks to Crew over there. It’s a damn miracle he pulled it off.”

“A miracle, Mr. Garza?”

“What would you call it? From my perspective, it was a cluster-fuck from beginning to end.”

Gideon saw a smile play briefly over Glinn’s colorless lips. “I would beg to differ.”

“Yeah?”

“As you know, here at EES we have many proprietary software algorithms that quantify human behavior and analyze elaborate game-theory simulations.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

“Apparently I do. Haven’t you asked yourself why we didn’t send a kill-team after Wu? Why we didn’t assemble formal, six-on-six surveillance teams to monitor Dr. Crew, here? Why we didn’t furnish him with additional information or weaponry? Why we didn’t engage police or FBI backup for him? We have ample resources to do all those things, and more.” He sat forward slowly. “Did you ever wonder why we didn’t attempt to kill Nodding Crane ourselves?”

Garza was silent.

“Mr. Garza, you know the computing power we have here. I ran all those scenarios—and many more. The reason we didn’t go those routes was because they all ended in failure. If Nodding Crane had been killed, the Chinese would have reacted—on a colossal scale. That prematurity was the event we had to avoid. The arc of the lone operator offered the highest probability of success. The arc in which Dr. Crew operated on his own, with no support; in which Nodding Crane remained alive to the very end, reporting back positive, reassuring news to his handlers.”

“You know that I think some of your programs are a lot of horsefeathers,” said Garza.

Glinn smiled. “I do. You’re a straight engineer—the best I’ve got. I’d be concerned if you weren’t suspicious of my psychoengineering methods.”

He turned toward Gideon. “Dr. Crew, here, has unique talents. And he labors under the most liberating psychological environment a human being can have: he knows when and how he’ll die. The Native Americans understood the power of this knowledge. The greatest vision a warrior could receive was to see his own death.”

Gideon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He wondered if Glinn would be so smug and self-satisfied when he learned the final outcome of the op.

The gray eye turned on him, examining him with unblinking intensity. A crippled hand rose from the wheelchair, cupped, ready to receive. “The wire, Dr. Crew?”

Here it came. “I don’t have it.”

The room settled into a strange, listening stasis. All was silent.

“And why not?”

“I gave it to Falun Gong. Along with the numbers. I completed Wu’s mission. Soon the technology will be available to the entire world—free.”

For a moment, the self-assured mask left Eli Glinn’s face and something unreadable—some strong emotion—passed across it. “I am afraid our client will be most dissatisfied to hear that.”

“I did it because—”

As soon as it had come, the mysterious expression vanished and the faint smile returned. “Say no more, please. I know perfectly well why you did it.”

There was a brief silence.

“Highest probability of success!” Garza exploded. “Was this part of your computer simulation? I told you from the very beginning not to trust this guy. What are we going to tell our client?”

Glinn looked from one to the other, not speaking. There was something not entirely dissatisfied in his expression.

The silence stretched on until, finally, Gideon rose. “If we’re finished here,” he said, “I’m going back to New Mexico to sleep for a week. Then I’m going fishing.”

Glinn shifted in his wheelchair and sighed. The withered hand reappeared from under the blanket shrouding his knees. It contained a brown-paper package. “Your payment.”

Gideon hesitated. “I figured you weren’t going to pay me. After what I did.”

“The fact is, based on what you’ve told me, our payment structure has changed.” Glinn opened the package envelope, counted out several banded bricks of hundreds. “Here is half of the hundred thousand.”

Gideon took it. Better than nothing, he thought.

Then, to his surprise, Glinn handed him the other half. “And here’s the rest. Not as payment for services rendered, however. More in the way of, shall we say, an advance.”

Gideon stuffed the money into his jacket pockets. “I don’t understand.”

“Before you go,” Glinn said, “I thought you might like to drop in on an old friend of yours who’s in town.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got a date with a cutthroat trout in Chihuahueños Creek.”

“Ah, but I was so hoping you’d have time to see your friend.”

“I don’t have any friends,” Gideon replied drily. “And if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t be interested in ‘dropping in’ on them right now. As you pointed out, I’m living on borrowed time.”

“Reed Chalker is his name. I believe you worked with him?”

“We worked in the same Tech Area—that’s not the same as working with him. I haven’t seen the guy around Los Alamos in months.”

“Well, you’re about to see him now. The authorities are hoping you could have a little chat with him.”

“The authorities? A chat? What the hell’s this about?”

“At this moment Chalker’s got a hostage. Four of them, actually. A family in Queens. Held at gunpoint.”

Gideon felt this sink in. “Jesus. You sure it’s Chalker? The guy I knew was a typical Los Alamos geek, straight as an arrow, wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“He’s raving. Paranoid. Out of his mind. You’re the only person nearby who knows him. The police are hoping you can calm him down, get him to release those hostages.”

Gideon didn’t reply.

“So I’m sorry to tell you, Dr. Crew, but that cutthroat trout is going to be enjoying life just a little bit longer. And now we really do need to go. That family can’t wait.”

About the Authors

Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child are coauthors of the bestselling novels Relic, Mount Dragon, Reliquary, Riptide, Thunderhead, The Ice Limit, The Cabinet of Curiosities, Still Life with Crows, Brimstone, Dance of Death, The Book of the Dead, The Wheel of Darkness, Cemetery Dance, and Fever Dream. Preston’s bestselling nonfiction book, The Monster of Florence, is being made into a major motion picture. His interests include horses, scuba diving, and skiing. He is the co-president of International Thriller Writers. Lincoln Child is a former book editor who has published four bestselling novels of his own, most recently Terminal Freeze. He is passionate about motorcycles, exotic parrots, and nineteenth-century English literature. The authors welcome e-mail from their readers; you can visit their website at www.prestonchild.com.

A Conversation with Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

What is your process when writing as a team? Do you find writing together easier or harder than writing your solo books?

Lincoln: These days, we tend to divide the work, not by chapter or scene, but rather by a series of chapters from one character’s point of view, a plot sequence, or even an act. Then the other writing partner goes over that work and does a careful revision. The first one will take it back and revise further. And that’s why the books appear as seamless as they are. Of course, this is not always a fun process; sometimes I have to firmly object to Doug’s wholesale slashing of my deathless prose.

Douglas: Which is nothing compared to the manhandling Linc gives my lapidary work.

Lincoln: Regarding the writing process itself, we each have our own favorite kinds of chapters to write. I like to write chapters from the villain’s point of view.

Douglas: Twisted, evil chapters… He’s so good at that, sometimes I worry. I like to write scenes of action and obsessive pursuit—for example, the final chapters in The Book of the Dead where Constance is pursuing Diogenes.

Lincoln: As for the second part of the question, I think I speak for both of us when I say that the joint books are easier to write. There’s somebody you can always call on if you hit a dead end or if you need inspiration. Or if you just want to complain or commiserate.

Douglas: Having a partner helps you manage all the other odds and ends that go into being a novelist, as well. For example, we’re taking turns answering the questions in this very document.

What inspired this new series and character?

Douglas: Much as we love Pendergast, we thought it was time to shake things up a bit by inventing a new series character. We wanted to create someone who was totally different from Pendergast, clever, younger, and sketchier. We have a mortal fear of boring our readers—and ourselves.

Lincoln: We also were looking to write a series of novels that were shorter, faster-paced, with a lot more action, fewer subplots and less ratiocination. The Gideon Crew series was the answer to all that.

Gideon Crew is so different from Agent Pendergast. Did you purposefully write him that way?

Lincoln: Yes, we did. While we wanted Gideon to be as interesting and attractive—in his own way—as Pendergast, part of the idea of branching out into a new series was to create a character who was very much his own person. In some ways, Gideon is the polar opposite of Pendergast. Also, you might think of Gideon as our present to those readers who have been mourning the demise of Bill Smithback.

Douglas: Yes, there’s a wee bit of Smithback in Gideon, no doubt about that. As for Pendergast and Gideon, they’d be like oil and water. Their ways of dealing with people and getting what they want are totally different. Pendergast crushes people mentally and verbally and sometimes physically. Gideon tricks them, he fools them, he hoodwinks them. He is the king of the brave new art of social engineering.

Do you tend to model your characters after people in your own life?

Douglas: Not at all. In fact, for the most part, we avoid it.

Lincoln: Never. That’s a scary thought. We do, however, steal bits and pieces, mix and match—every novelist has to do that.

How did you learn so much about Hart Island? Why did you decide to use that as a location in this book?

Douglas: People ask if we do our own research and the answer is yes. Hart Island is a perfect example why. I was browsing the Wikipedia entry on potter’s field for a completely different reason and came across a mention of Hart Island, the largest public burial ground in the world. I was stunned to learn that, within the boundaries of New York City, there was an uninhabited island, of over 100 acres in extent, that is the final resting place for a million people. As I read on, I was captivated by the history of the island: it had been used as a sanatorium, a place of quarantine, and a Nike missile base, and for a boy’s workhouse, among other things. There was an entire town on the island, abandoned and falling apart now. Being a baseball fan, I was amazed to learn that some of the original bleachers from Ebbets Field had been moved there in 1960 and are still there, covered with vines and rotting away. It made the perfect setting for the book’s climax.

Lincoln: Doug was caught sneaking onto Hart Island and got in serious trouble. But that’s a story for another day…

In this book you brought back the character Eli Glinn. Did you always intend to write him into new books? Will he continue to play an important role in this series?

Douglas: No, we didn’t. In fact, once we finished The Ice Limit, we really had little thought of bringing him back at all. We thought he was dead. But requests for a sequel to that book have been so persistent that we ultimately brought him back in what we call the Diogenes trilogy of the Pendergast novels. From there, it seemed almost natural to bring him back as Gideon’s employer.

Lincoln: The man is a quintessential survivor, and he reappeared, unbidden, as we were writing the Diogenes trilogy. And, yes, Eli Glinn will appear in future Gideon Crew novels.

Do you plan to write more Gideon Crew books?

Lincoln: Yes, we do! The second Gideon Crew novel, Gideon’s Corpse, is already well underway, and we hope to do more—perhaps as many as twelve in all. (We can’t do more than that for reasons that will be clear to anyone who reads Gideon’s Sword.) The actual number of books we write, though, will probably depend in part on reader enthusiasm: we hope people like him and his adventures as much as we do!

Douglas: We’ve already sold the movie rights to the Gideon series to Paramount Pictures, for the most excellent producer Michael Bay. So we do expect this to be a long and fruitful series. Gideon is only going to get better.

You both have been in the business for a long time. How have you seen book publishing change over the years? How much does changing technology affect the challenges of being a writer?

Lincoln: There were two big changes in writing technology. The first was the advent of the computer, which made revising infinitely easier. The second was the rise of the World Wide Web, which made research much easier. Research that once took days now only takes hours.

Douglas: The biggest change in our writing lifetimes is the advent of the e-book. This is an exciting new frontier. We are just at the cusp of what I think will be the biggest transformation of publishing since the Gutenberg Bible.

By Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Fever Dream

Cemetery Dance

The Wheel of Darkness

The Book of the Dead

Dance of Death

Brimstone

Still Life with Crows

The Cabinet of Curiosities

The Ice Limit

Thunderhead

Riptide

Reliquary

Mount Dragon

Relic

In answer to a frequently asked reader question:

The above titles are listed in descending order of publication. Almost all of them are stand-alone novels that need not be read in order, except for the pairs Relic/Reliquary and Dance of Death/The Book of the Dead, which are ideally read in sequence.

By Douglas Preston

Impact

The Monster of Florence (with Mario Spezi)

Blasphemy

Tyrannosaur Canyon

The Codex

Ribbons of Time

The Royal Road

Talking to the Ground

Jennie

Cities of Gold

Dinosaurs in the Attic

By Lincoln Child

Terminal Freeze

Deep Storm

Death Match

Utopia

Tales of the Dark 1–3

Dark Banquet

Dark Company

PAGE-TURNING THRILL FROM PRESTON AND CHILD!

FEVER DREAM

Yesterday, Special Agent Pendergast mourned the loss of his beloved wife, Helen, who died in a tragic accident in Africa twelve years ago. Today, he discovers she was murdered.

Tomorrow, he will learn her most guarded secrets, leaving him to wonder: Who was the woman I married? Why was she murdered? And, above all… Who murdered her?

Revenge is not sweet: It is essential.

CEMETERY DANCE

[clipped news article]

New York, Thursday, October 8

JOURNALIST SLAIN

William Smithback Jr., a prominent New York Times reporter, was killed in a brutal attack last night in his Upper West Side apartment. His wife, Nora Kelly, an archaeologist at the Museum of Natural History, was injured as well. Multiple eyewitnesses identified the assailant as a neighbor in the building, Colin Fearing: a man who, by all reports, was dead and buried ten days ago. There are reports that FBI Special Agent Pendergast has taken an interest in the case, but no further…

THE WHEEL OF DARKNESS

A luxury ocean liner on its maiden voyage across the North Atlantic, awash in wealth and decadence… An ancient Tibetan box, its contents unknown, sealed with a terrifying warning…

An FBI agent destined to confront what he fears most—himself…

The waters shall rise up in fury…

THE BOOK OF THE DEAD

A brilliant FBI agent, rotting away in a high security prison for a murder he did not commit. His brilliant, psychotic brother, about to perpetrate a horrific crime. A young woman with an extraordinary past, on the edge of a violent breakdown. An ancient Egyptian tomb about to be unveiled at a celebrity-studded New York gala, an enigmatic curse released. Memento Mori…

DANCE OF DEATH

Two brothers. One a top FBI agent. The other a brilliant, twisted criminal. An undying hatred between them. Now, a perfect crime. And the ultimate challenge: Stop me if you can…

BRIMSTONE

A body is found in the attic of a fabulous Long Island estate. There is a hoofprint scorched into the floor, and the stench of sulfur chokes the air. When FBI Special Agent Pendergast investigates the gruesome crime, he discovers that thirty years ago four men conjured something unspeakable. Has the devil come to claim his due?

STILL LIFE WITH CROWS

A small Kansas town has turned into a killing ground. Is it a serial killer, a man with the need to destroy? Or is it a darker force, a curse upon the land? Amid golden cornfield, FBI Special Agent Pendergast discovers evil in the blood of America’s heartland.

THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES

In an ancient tunnel underneath New York City a charnel house is discovered. Inside are thirty-six bodies—all murdered and mutilated more than a century ago. While FBI agent Pendergast investigates the old crimes, identical killings start to terrorize the city. The nightmare has begun. Again.

THE ICE LIMIT

The largest known meteorite is discovered entombed on a frigid, desolate island off the southern tip of Chile. Palmer Lloyd is determined to have this incredible find for his museum. Stocking a cargo ship with the finest scientists and engineers, he builds a flawless expedition. But from the first approach to the meteorite, people begin to die…

THUNDERHEAD

Archeologist Nora Kelly receives a letter written sixteen years ago, yet mailed only recently. In it her father, long believed dead, hints at a fantastic discovery—the lost city of an ancient civilization that vanished a thousand years ago. Now Nora is leading an expedition to find her father and his glory, but she unearths the newest of horrors…

RIPTIDE

In 1695, a notorious English pirate buried treasure in a maze of booby-trapped tunnels on an island off the coast of Maine. Now a treasure hunter and his high-tech, million-dollar recovery team plan to unearth the bounty. The island has guarded its secrets for centuries, and it isn’t letting them go—without a fight.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, police departments, government agencies, corporations, religious institutions, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.  Falun Gong as portrayed in this novel is entirely fictional, and the authors extend their apologies for any inaccuracies in their depiction of this spiritual practice.

Copyright © 2011 by Splendide Mendax, Inc. and Lincoln Child

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/GrandCentralPub

First eBook Edition: February 2011

Grand Central Publishing is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Grand Central Publishing name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: 978-0-446-56433-5

BONUS NOVEL

A Note from the authors:

We have long wanted to do something special for our loyal e-book readers. Now we've found a way. We are delighted to be giving away a free e-book copy of our novel THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES, bundled with every copy of our friend Brad Meltzer's amazing new book, THE INNER CIRCLE. Also, Brad will be giving away a free copy of one of his e-books with our new novel, GIDEON'S SWORD. It's a way of welcoming and inviting Brad's readers to sample our work, and vice versa.

Brad Meltzer is one of the most exciting, brilliant, and original thriller writers working today. We can't speak highly enough of this fabulous and creative author. We love his books for their tight, fast pacing, fascinating historical detail, masterful command of the language, and beautifully realized characters. We are delighted to be partnering with him in this way.

Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Please turn the page for a complimentary copy of

Brad Meltzer’s

THE ZERO GAME

THE ZERO GAME

BRAD MELTZER

NEW YORK   BOSTON

For Jonas, my son, who holds my hand, tugs me along, and takes me on the most cherished adventure of all

Acknowledgments

THERE’S ONE NAME on the cover of this book, but I’ve always maintained it takes far more than that to transform an imagined idea into reality. For that reason, I’d like to thank the following people: always first, my love Cori. To paraphrase someone far smarter than myself: The words aren’t real until Cori reads them. She’s always been my first editor and adviser, but for this book, in her real-world position as a lawyer in Congress, she was also my eyes and ears into the complex world of Capitol Hill. What she doesn’t know is how humbled I was to watch her do her job. Forever the fighter of the good fight, she thought she was teaching me political mechanics. What she really did was remind me what idealism is all about. I love you for that and so much more. There are endless reasons I couldn’t do this without you, C. Jill Kneerim, my agent and friend, whose insights and intuition challenge me to bring honesty to the forefront of my writing. Her guidance is among the first I seek, but it’s her friendship that I treasure (even more than she knows). Elaine Rogers, for the amazing work she’s done from the very start. Ike Williams, Hope Denekamp, Elizabeth Dane, Seana McInerney, and all the other incredibly nice people at the Kneerim & Williams Agency.

Now more than ever, I’d also like to thank my parents, whose unflinching love brought me here today. They keep me grounded, support me, and forever remind me where home really is. Everything I am, everything I have—it started with them. My sister Bari, one of the strongest people I know, for sharing that strength whenever I need it. Thanks, Bari, for everything you do. Dale and Adam Flam helped brainstorm the game, while Bobby Flam and Ami and Matt Kuttler read early drafts. Their love and support helped me throughout. Steve “Scoop” Cohen, fellow dreamer, brother in creativity, and all-around mad genius, for the eureka moment that led to this entire book. The ideas are fun; the friendship is far more valued. Thanks, Cheese! Noah Kuttler, without whose help I’d be insanely lost. Noah’s the first sounding board I go to after my wife. He’s that talented. He knows he’s family—I just hope he realizes how blessed I feel to have him in my life. Ethan and Sarah Kline helped develop the game, and Ethan has fearlessly pushed me as a writer since my very first manuscript. Paul Brennan, Matt Oshinsky, Paulo Pacheco, Joel Rose, Chris Weiss, and Judd Winick, my alter egos, whose reactions and unwavering friendship are an endless source of inspiration.

In every novel, the goal is to make a complete fabrication sound like absolute fact. The only way to pull it off is to arm yourself with details. I owe the following people tremendous thank-yous for making those details available: Without question, when it came to explaining how the government actually works, Dave Watkins was my congressional sensei—an incredible teacher who was patient enough to answer all my inane questions. From initial brainstorming to final chapter gut-checking, I trusted him with every detail. He never let me down. Scott Strong was the Indiana Jones of the U.S. Capitol, guiding me through unexplored passageways and abandoned tunnels. His friendship and trust were indispensable to creating this reality. Tom Regan took me eight thousand feet beneath the earth’s surface and reminded me exactly how this country was built. I just hope he knows what an impact his kindness had on me. Sean Dalton, for spending days explaining every tiny detail of the appropriations process, which is no small feat. His mastery of the minutiae was vital to this book. Andrea Cohen, Chris Guttman-McCabe, Elliot Kaye, Ben Lawsky, and Carmel Martin, for making themselves available whenever I needed them. The best part was, since they’re among my closest friends, I could ask them the stupidest questions. Dick Baker is an institution unto himself. His generosity and historical insights brought the institution of the Capitol to life. Julian Epstein, Perry Apelbaum, Ted Kalo, Scott Deutchman, Sampak Garg, and everyone from the House Judiciary Committee are just the greatest. They made introductions, gave explanations, and came to my aid at every turn. Michone Johnson and Stephanie Peters, for being wonderful friends who helped bring Viv to life. Luke Albee, Marsha Berry, Martha Carucci, Jim Dyer, Dan Freeman, Charles Grizzle, Scott Lilly, Amy McKennis, Martin Paone, Pat Schroeder, Mark Schuermann, Will Smith, Debbie Weatherly, and Kathryn Weeden took me into their respective worlds and answered question upon question. Their help cannot be overstated. Congressman John Conyers, Congressman Harold Ford Jr., and Congressman Hal Rogers were generous enough to invite me inside—those were some of the best days of the process. Loretta Beaumont, Bruce Evans, Leif Fonnesbeck, Kathy Johnson, Joel Kaplan, Peter Kiefhaber, Brooke Livingston, and Chris Topik gave me a firsthand look at the incredible work that’s done in Interior Appropriations. Mazen Basrawi, for letting me see through a blind man’s eyes. Lee Alman, David Carle, Bruce Cohen, George Crawford, Jerry Gallegos, Jerry Hartz, Ken Kato, Keith Kennedy, David Safavian, Alex Sternhill, Will Stone, and Reid Stuntz for painting such realistic pictures of life on the Hill. Chris Gallagher, Rob Gustafson, Mark Laisch, William Minor, and Steve Perry were my experts in the art of lobbying. Michael Brown, Karl Burke, Steve Mitchell, and Ron Waterland of Barrick Gold, for all their help in getting me down into the mine. Michael Bowers, Stacie Hunhoff, Paul Ordal, Jason Recher, Elizabeth Roach, and Brooke Russ took me back to my youth and shared the excitement of being a page. Bill Allen, David Angier, Jamie Arbolino, Rich Doerner, and James Horning filled in the Capitol’s physical details. David Beaver, Terry Catlain, Deborah Lanzone, John Leshy, Alan Septoff, and Lexi Shultz, for helping me with mining issues and land exchanges. Dr. Ronald K. Wright, for his always amazing forensic advice. Keith Nelson and Jerry Shaw taught me all the fighting skills. Dr. Ron Flam and Bernie Levin shared their hometown. Edna Farley, Kim from L.A., Jon Faust, Jo Ayn “Joey” Glanzer, Harvey Goldschmid, Bill Harlan, Paul Khoury, Daren Newfield, Susan Oshinsky, Adam Rosman, Mike Rotker, Greg Rucka, and Matthew Weiss, for walking me through the rest of the details. Brian Lipson, Phil Raskind, and Lou Pitt, whose hard work and friendship are immensely appreciated. Kathleen Kennedy, Donna Langley, Mary Parent, and Gary Ross, for their tremendous faith, sight unseen. Rob Weisbach, for being the first to say yes, and the rest of my family and friends, whose names forever inhabit these pages.

Finally, let me say thank you to everyone at Warner Books: Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Tina Andreadis, Emi Battaglia, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, Chris Barba, the nicest and hardest-working sales force in show business, and all the other incredible people who make me feel like part of the family. They’re the ones who do the heavy lifting, and they’re the reason this book is in your hands. I also want to send a tremendous thank-you to my editor, Jamie Raab. From the moment we met, I’ve been under her care, but this is our first book where she’s the sole editor. I’m the lucky one. Her insights about the characters forced me to delve deeper, and her suggestions left these pages far better than she found them. Every writer should be as blessed. Thanks again, Jamie, for your friendship, your endless enthusiasm, and most of all, your faith.

If the American people found out what was going on there, they would tear it down brick by brick.

Howard R. Ryland

Capitol police officer

On Congress

… the real problem is that government is boring.

P. J. O’Rourke

1

I DON’T BELONG HERE. I haven’t for years. When I first came to Capitol Hill to work for Congressman Nelson Cordell, it was different. But even Mario Andretti eventually gets bored driving two hundred miles an hour every single day. Especially when you’re going in a circle. I’ve been going in circles for eight years. Time to finally leave the loop.

“We shouldn’t be here,” I insist as I stand at the urinal.

“What’re you talking about?” Harris asks, unzipping his fly at the urinal next to mine. He has to crane his neck up to see my full lanky frame. At six feet four inches, I’m built like a palm tree and staring straight down at the top of his messy black hair. He knows I’m agitated, but as always, he’s the perfect calm in the storm. “C’mon, Matthew, no one cares about the sign out front.”

He thinks I’m worried about the bathroom. For once, he’s wrong. This may be the rest room right across from the Floor of the House of Representatives, and it may have a sign on the door that says, Members Only—as in Members of Congress… as in them… as in not us—but after all this time here, I’m well aware that even the most formal Members won’t stop two staffers from taking a whiz.

“Forget the bathroom,” I tell Harris. “I’m talking about the Capitol itself. We don’t belong anymore. I mean, last week I celebrated eight years here, and what do I have to show for it? A shared office and a Congressman who, last week, pressed himself up against the Vice President to make sure he didn’t get cropped out of the photo for the next day’s newspaper. I’m thirty-two years old—it’s just not fun anymore.”

“Fun? You think this is about fun, Matthew? What would the Lorax say if he heard that?” he asks, motioning with his chin to the Dr. Seuss Lorax pin on the lapel of my navy blue suit. As usual, he knows just where the pressure points are. When I started doing environmental work for Congressman Cordell, my five-year-old nephew gave me the pin to let me know how proud he was. I am the Lorax—I speak for the trees, he kept saying, reciting from memory the book I used to read to him. My nephew’s now thirteen. Dr. Seuss is just a writer of kids’ books to him, but for me, even though it’s just a trinket… when I look at the tiny orange Lorax with the fluffy blond mustache… some things still matter.

“That’s right,” Harris says. “The Lorax always fights the good fight. He speaks for the trees. Even when it’s not fun.”

“You of all people shouldn’t start with that.”

“That’s not a very Lorax response,” he adds in full singsong voice. “Don’t you think, LaRue?” he says, turning to the older black man who’s permanently stationed at the shoeshine chair right behind us.

“Never heard of the Lorax,” LaRue responds, his eyes locked on the small TV that plays C-SPAN above the door. “Always been a Horton Hears a Who guy myself.” He looks off in the distance. “Cute little elephant…”

Before Harris can add another mile to the guilt trip, the swinging doors to the rest room bang open, and a man with a gray suit and red bow tie storms inside. I recognize him instantly: Congressman William E. Enemark from Colorado—dean of the House, and Congress’s longest-serving Member. Over the years, he’s seen everything from desegregation and the Red Scare, to Vietnam and Watergate, to Lewinsky and Iraq. But as he hangs his jacket on the hand-carved coat-rack and rushes toward the wooden stall in back, he doesn’t see us. And as we zip up our flies, Harris and I barely make an attempt to see him.

“That’s my point,” I whisper to Harris.

“What? Him?” he whispers back, motioning to Enemark’s stall.

“The guy’s a living legend, Harris. Y’know how jaded we must be to let him walk by without saying hello?”

“He’s going to the can…”

“You can still say hello, right?”

Harris makes a face, then motions over to LaRue, who raises the volume on C-SPAN. Whatever Harris is about to say, he doesn’t want it heard. “Matthew, I hate to break it to you, but the only reason you didn’t throw him a Hi, Congressman is because you think his environmental record is crap.”

It’s hard to argue with that. Last year, Enemark was the number one recipient of campaign money from the timber, oil, and nuclear power industries. He’d clear-cut Oregon, hang billboards in the Grand Canyon, and vote to pave over his own garden with baby seal skins if he thought it’d get him some cash. “But even so, if I were a twenty-two-year-old just out of college, I still would’ve stuck my hand out for a quick Hi, Congressman. I’m telling you, Harris, eight years is enough—the fun’s long gone.”

Still standing at the urinal, Harris stops. His green eyes narrow, and he studies me with that same mischievous look that once got me thrown in the back of a police car when we were undergrads at Duke. “C’mon, Matthew, this is Washington, D.C.—fun and games are being played everywhere,” he teases. “You just have to know where to find them.”

Before I can react, his hand springs out and grabs the Lorax pin from my lapel. He glances at LaRue, then over to the Congressman’s jacket on the coat-rack.

“What’re you doing?”

“Cheering you up,” he promises. “Trust me, you’ll love it. No lie.”

There it is. No lie. Harris’s favorite turn of phrase—and the first sign of guaranteed trouble.

I flush my urinal with my elbow. Harris flushes his with a full-on grip. He’s never been afraid to get his hands dirty. “How much will you give me if I put it on his lapel?” he whispers, holding up the Lorax and moving toward Enemark’s coat.

“Harris, don’t…” I hiss. “He’ll kill you.”

“Wanna bet?”

There’s a hollow rumble of spinning toilet paper from within the stall. Enemark’s almost finished.

As Harris shoots me a smile, I reach for his arm, but he sidesteps my grip with his usual perfect grace. It’s how he operates in every political fight. Once he’s focused on a goal, the man’s unstoppable.

“I am the Lorax, Matthew. I speak for the trees! ” He laughs as he says the words. Watching him slowly tiptoe toward Enemark’s jacket, I can’t help but laugh with him. It’s a dumb stunt, but if he pulls it off…

I take that back. Harris doesn’t fail at anything. That’s why, at twenty-nine years old, he was one of the youngest chiefs of staff ever hired by a Senator. And why, at thirty-five, there’s no one—not even the older guys—who can touch him. I swear, he could charge for some of the stuff that comes out of his mouth. Lucky me, old college friends get it for free.

“How’s the weather look, LaRue?” Harris calls to Mr. Shoeshine, who, from his seat near the tiled floor, has a better view of what’s happening under the stall.

If it were anyone else, LaRue would tattle and run. But it isn’t anyone else. It’s Harris. “Bright and sunny,” LaRue says as he ducks his head down toward the stall. “Though a storm’s quickly approaching…”

Harris nods a thank-you and straightens his red tie, which I know he bought from the guy who sells them outside the subway. As chief of staff for Senator Paul Stevens, he should be wearing something nicer, but the way Harris works, he doesn’t need to impress. “By the way, LaRue, what happened to your mustache?”

“Wife didn’t like it—said it was too Burt Reynolds.”

“I told you, you can’t have the mustache and the Trans Am—it’s one or the other,” Harris adds.

LaRue laughs, and I shake my head. When the Founding Fathers set up the government, they split the legislative branch into two sides: the House and the Senate. I’m here in the House, which is in the south half of the Capitol. Harris works in the Senate, which is all the way over on the north. It’s a whole different world over there, but somehow, Harris still remembers the latest update on our shoeshine guy’s facial hair. I don’t know why I’m surprised. Unlike the monsters who walk these halls, Harris doesn’t talk to everyone as a political maneuver. He does it because that’s his gift—as the son of a barber, he’s got the gift of gab. And people love him for it. That’s why, when he walks into a room, Senators casually flock around him, and when he walks into the cafeteria, the lunch lady gives him an extra ladle of chicken in his burrito.

Reaching Enemark’s gray suit jacket, Harris pulls it from the coat-rack and fishes for the lapel. The toilet flushes behind us. We all spin back toward the stall. Harris is still holding the jacket. Before any of us can react, the door to the stall swings open.

If we were brand-new staffers, this is where we’d panic. Instead, I bite the inside of my cheek and take a deep gulp of Harris’s calm. Old instincts kick in. As the door to the stall opens, I go to step in front of the Congressman. All I have to do is buy Harris a few seconds. The only problem is, Enemark’s moving too quickly.

Sidestepping me without even looking up, Enemark is someone who avoids people for a living. Leaving the stall, he heads straight for the coat-rack. If Harris is caught with his jacket…

“Congressman…!” I call out. He doesn’t slow down. I turn to follow, but just as I spin around, I’m surprised to see Enemark’s gray coat hanging lifelessly on the coat-rack. There’s a sound of running water on the right side of the room. Harris is washing his hands by the sink. Across from him, LaRue rests his chin in his palm, studying C-SPAN with his fingers covering his mouth. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

“Excuse me?” Enemark asks, taking his coat from the rack. The way it’s draped over his forearm, I can’t see the lapel. The pin’s nowhere in sight.

I glance over at Harris, who’s wearing a calm that’s almost hypnotic. His green eyes disappear in a soft squint, and his dark black eyebrows seem to take over his face. Japanese is easier to read.

“Son, did you say something?” Enemark repeats.

“We just wanted to say hello, sir,” Harris interrupts, leaping to my aid. “Really, it’s an honor to meet you. Isn’t that right, Matthew?”

“A-Absolutely,” I say.

Enemark’s chest rises at the compliment. “Much appreciated.”

“I’m Harris… Harris Sandler…” he says, introducing himself even though Enemark didn’t ask. Leaving the sink, Harris studies the Congressman like a chessboard. It’s the only way to stay ten moves ahead.

The Congressman extends a handshake, but Harris pulls away. “Sorry… wet hands…” he explains. “By the way, Congressman, this is Matthew Mercer. He does Interior Approps for Congressman Cordell.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Enemark jabs with a fake laugh as he pumps my hand. Asshole. Without another word, he opens his coat and slides an arm into the sleeve. I check the lapel. There’s nothing there.

“Have a good day, sir,” Harris says as Enemark slides his other arm in. Enemark rotates his shoulder blades and pulls his suit jacket into place. When the other half of the jacket hits his chest, a tiny flash of light catches my eye. There… on his other lapel… there’s a tiny American flag pin… a little triangle with an oil well on it… and the Lorax, whose big Dr. Seuss eyes smile at me.

I motion to Harris; he looks up and finally grins. When I was a freshman at Duke, Harris was a senior. He got me into the fraternity and, years later, got me my first job here on the Hill. Mentor then, hero now.

“Look at that,” Harris says to the Congressman. “I see you’re wearing the logging mascot.”

I turn toward LaRue, but he’s staring at the ground to keep himself from laughing.

“Yeah… I guess,” Enemark barks, checking the Lorax out for himself. Anxious to be done with the small talk, the Congressman leaves the bathroom and heads across the hallway to the House Floor. None of us moves until the door closes.

“The logging mascot?” I finally blurt.

“I told you there’s still fun going on,” Harris says, looking up at the small TV and checking out C-SPAN. Just another day at work.

“I gotta tell Rosey this one…” LaRue says, rushing out of the room. “Harris, they’re gonna catch you sooner or later.”

“Only if they outthink us,” Harris replies as the door again slams shut.

I continue to laugh. Harris continues to study C-SPAN. “You notice Enemark didn’t wash his hands?” he asks. “Though that didn’t stop him from shaking yours.”

I look down at my own open palm and head for the sink.

“Here we go… Here’s the clip for the highlight reel…” Harris calls out, pointing up at C-SPAN.

On-screen, Congressman Enemark approaches the podium with his usual old-cowboy swagger. But if you look real close—when the light hits him just right—the Lorax shines like a tiny star on his chest.

“I’m Congressman William Enemark, and I speak for the people of Colorado,” he announces through the television.

“That’s funny,” I say. “I thought he spoke for the trees…”

To my surprise, Harris doesn’t smile. He just scratches at the dimple in his chin. “Feeling better?” he asks.

“Of course—why?”

He leans against the inlaid mahogany wall and never takes his eyes off the TV. “I meant what I said before. There really are some great games being played here.”

“You mean games like this?”

“Something like this.” There’s a brand-new tone in his voice. All serious.

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, jeez, Matthew, it’s right in front of your face,” he says with a rare glimpse of rural Pennsylvania accent.

I give him a long, hard look and rub the back of my sandy-blond hair. I’m a full head taller than him. But he’s still the only person I look up to in this place. “What’re you saying, Harris?”

“You wanted to bring the fun back, right?”

“Depends what kinda fun you’re talking about.”

Pushing himself off the wall, Harris grins and heads for the door. “Trust me, it’ll be more fun than you’ve had in your entire life. No lie.”

2

Six Months Later

I USUALLY HATE SEPTEMBER. With the end of the August recess, the halls are once again crowded, the Members are frozen in preelection bad moods, and worst of all, with the October 1st deadline that’s imposed on all Appropriations bills, we’re clocking hours twice as grueling as any other time of the year. This September, though, I barely notice.

“Who wants to taste a food item less healthy than bacon?” I ask as I leave the polished institutional hallways of the Rayburn House Office Building and shove open the door to room B-308. The clocks on the wall shout back with two loud electronic buzzes. The signal for a vote on the House Floor. The vote’s on. And so am I…

Wasting no time, I make a quick left at the handwoven Sioux quilt that hangs on the wall and head straight for our receptionist, a black woman who always has at least one pencil sticking in the bun of her prematurely gray hair. “Here you go, Roxanne—lunch is served,” I call out as I drop two wrapped hot dogs onto her paperwork-covered desk. As a professional staffer for the Appropriations Committee, I’m one of four people assigned to the subcommittee on Interior. And the only one, besides Roxanne, who eats meat.

“Where’d you get these?” she asks.

“Meat Association event. Didn’t you say you were hungry?”

She looks down at the dogs, then up at me. “What’s up with you lately? You on nice pills or something?”

I shrug my shoulders and stare at the small TV behind her desk. Like most TVs in the building, it’s on C-SPAN for the vote. My eyes check the tally. Too early. No yeas, no nays.

Following my gaze, Roxanne turns around to the TV. I stop right there. No… there’s no way. She can’t possibly know.

“You okay?” she asks, reading my now-pale complexion.

“With all this dead cow in my gut? Absolutely,” I say, patting my stomach. “So, is Trish here yet?”

“In the hearing room,” Roxanne says. “But before you go in, someone’s at your desk.”

Crossing into the large suite that houses four separate desks, I’m thoroughly confused. Roxanne knows the rules: With all the paperwork lying around, no one’s allowed in back, especially when we’re in preconference—which means, whoever’s back here is someone big…

“Matthew?” a voice calls out with a salty North Carolina tinge.

… or someone I know.

“Come give your favorite lobbyist a juicy hug,” Barry Holcomb says from the chair next to my desk. As always, his blond hair is as perfectly cut as his pinstriped suit—both of which come courtesy of bigshot clients like the music industry, the big telecom boys, and, if I remember correctly, the Meat Association.

“I smell hot dogs,” Barry teases, already one step ahead. “I’m telling you, free food always works.”

In the world of Capitol Hill, there’re two kinds of lobbyists: those who swoop in from the top and those who burrow in from below. If you swoop in from the top, it’s because you have direct connections to the Members. If you burrow from below, it’s because you’re connected to staff—or in this case, because you went to the same college, celebrated your last two birthdays together, and tend to see each other out for a beer at least once a month. The odd thing is, since he’s a few years older, Barry’s always been more Harris’s friend than mine—which means this call is more business than social.

“So what’s happening?” he asks. There it is. As a lobbyist at Pasternak & Associates, Barry knows he’s got two things to offer his clients: access and information. Access is why he’s sitting here. Now he’s focused on the latter.

“Everything’s fine,” I tell him.

“Any idea when you’ll have the bill done?”

I look around at the three other desks in the room. All empty. It’s a good thing. My other three office mates already have their own reasons to hate me—ever since Cordell took over the Interior Approps subcommittee and replaced their former colleague with me, I’ve been the odd man out. I don’t need to add to it by letting them catch me back here with a lobbyist. Of course, Barry may be the sole exception.

Sitting just below the Grand Canyon lithograph that hangs on my wall, Barry leans an elbow on my desk, which is packed with volcanoes of paperwork, including my Conference notes of all the projects we’ve funded so far. Barry’s clients would pay thousands, maybe millions, for those. It’s sitting four inches to Barry’s left.

But Barry doesn’t see it. He doesn’t see anything. Justice is blind. And due to a case of congenital glaucoma, so is one of the Hill’s best-known young lobbyists.

As I cross around to my desk, Barry’s vacant blue eyes stare into the distance, but his head turns as he traces my steps. Trained since birth, he absorbs the sounds. My arms swinging against my body. The in-and-out of my breath. Even the crushed hush as my foot hits the carpet. In college, he had a golden retriever named Reagan, which was great for meeting girls. But on the Hill, after being slowed down by strangers who were constantly asking to pet the dog, Barry branched out on his own. These days, if it weren’t for the white cane, he’d be just another guy in a snazzy suit. Or, as Barry likes to put it: Political vision has nothing to do with eyesight.

“We’re hoping October first,” I tell him. “We’re almost done with the Park Service.”

“How ’bout your office mates? They moving as happily along?”

What he really wants to know is, are the negotiations going just as well? Barry’s no fool. The four of us who share this office divvy up all the accounts—or sections—of the Interior bill, each doing our own specialty. At last count, the bill had a budget of twenty-one billion dollars. When you divide it by four, that means we’re in charge of spending over five billion dollars. Each. So why’s Barry so interested? Because we control the purse strings. Indeed, the whole purpose of the Appropriations Committee is to write the checks for all discretionary money spent by the government.

It’s one of the dirtiest little secrets on Capitol Hill: Congressmen can pass a bill, but if it needs funding, it’s not going anywhere without an Appropriator. Case in point: Last year, the President signed a bill that allows free immunizations for low-income children. But unless Appropriations sets aside money to pay for the vaccines, the President may’ve gotten a great media event, but no one’s getting a single shot. And that, as the old joke goes, is why there’re actually three parties in Congress: Democrats, Republicans, and Appropriators. Like I said, it’s a dirty secret—but one Barry is all too aware of right about now.

“So everyone’s good?” he asks.

“Why complain, right?”

Realizing the clock’s ticking, I flip on the TV that sits on my filing cabinet. As C-SPAN blooms into view, Barry turns at the sound. I once again check the vote count.

“What’s the tally?” he asks.

I spin around at the question. “What’d you say?”

Barry pauses. His left eye is glass; his right one is pale blue and completely foggy. The combination makes it near impossible to read his expression. But the tone in his voice is innocent enough. “The tally,” he repeats. “What’s the vote count?”

I smile to myself, still watching him closely. To be honest, if he were playing the game, I wouldn’t be surprised. I take that back. I would be. Harris said you can only invite one other person in. Harris invited me. If Barry’s in, someone else invited him.

Convinced it’s just my imagination, I check the totals on C-SPAN. All I care about are the yeas and nays. On-screen, the white letters are superimposed over a shot of the still mostly empty House Floor: thirty-one yeas, eight nays.

“Thirteen minutes left. Thirty-one to eight,” I tell Barry. “It’ll be a slaughter.”

“No surprise,” he says, focused on the TV. “Even a blind man could’ve seen that.”

I laugh at the joke—one of Barry’s old favorites. But I can’t stop thinking about what Harris said. It’s the best part of the game—not knowing who else is playing.

“Listen, Barry, can we catch up later?” I ask as I grab my conference notes. “I’ve got Trish waiting…”

“No stress,” he says, never wanting to push. Good lobbyists know better than that. “I’ll call you in an hour or so.”

“That’s fine—though I may still be in the meeting.”

“Let’s make it two hours. Does three o’clock work?”

Again, I take it back. Even when he doesn’t want to, Barry can’t help but push. It was the same way in college. Every time we’d get ready to go to a party, we’d get two calls from Barry. The first was to check what time we were leaving. The second was to recheck what time we were leaving. Harris always called it overcompensation for the blindness; I called it understandable insecurity. Whatever the real reason, Barry’s always had to work a little harder to make sure he’s not left out.

“So I’ll speak to you at three,” he says, hopping up and heading out. I tuck my notebooks under my arm like a football and plow toward the door that connects with the adjoining hearing room. Inside, my eyes skip past the enormous oval conference table and even the two black sofas against the back wall that we use for overflow. Instead, like before, I find the small TV in the back and—

“You’re late,” Trish interrupts from the conference table.

I spin midstep, almost forgetting why I’m here. “Would it help if I brought hot dogs?” I stutter.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

Harris would have a great comeback. I offer an awkward grin.

Leaning back in her chair, she’s got her arms crossed, completely uncharmed. At thirty-six years old, Trish Brennan has at least six years more experience than me, and is the type of person who says you’re late even when she’s early. Her reddish hair, dark green eyes, and light freckles give her an innocent look that’s surprisingly attractive. Of course, right now, the hottest thing in the room is the small TV in the back. I have to squint to see it. Forty-two yeas, ten nays. Still looking good.

As I pull out the chair directly across from her at the conference table, the front door of the hearing room swings open and the last two staffers finally arrive. Georgia Rudd and Ezra Ben-Shmuel. Already prepped for battle, Ezra’s got a sparse poor-man’s-environmentalist beard (my-first-beard, Trish calls it), and a blue dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. Georgia’s the exact opposite. Too much of a conformist to take chances, she’s quiet, wears a standard navy interview suit, and is happy enough following Trish’s lead.

Each armed with an oversized redwell accordion file, they quickly head to different sides of the table. Ezra on my side, Georgia next to Trish. All four horsemen are here. When it comes to Conference, I represent the House majority; Ezra does the House minority. Across the table, Trish and Georgia do the respective same for the Senate. And regardless of the fact that Ezra and I are in different political parties, even House Republicans and Democrats can set aside their differences for our common enemy: the Senate.

My pager vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to check the message. It’s from Harris. You watching? he asks in digital black letters.

I glance over Trish’s shoulder, toward the TV in the back. Eighty-four yeas, forty-one nays.

Crap. I need the nays to stay under 110. If they’re at forty-one this early in the vote, we’ve got problems.

What do we do? I type back on the pager’s tiny keyboard, hiding my hands under the desk so the Senate folks can’t see what I’m doing. Before I can send it, my pager shakes with a new message.

Don’t panic just yet, Harris insists. He knows me too well.

“Can we please get this going?” Trish asks. It’s the sixth day in a row we’ve been trying to stomp each other into the ground, and Trish knows there’s still plenty to go. “Now, where’d we leave off?”

“Cape Cod,” Ezra says. Like speed-readers in a race, all four of us flip through the hundred-page documents in front of us that show the spending difference between the House and Senate bills. Last month, when the House passed its version of the bill, we allocated seven hundred thousand dollars to rehabilitate the Cape Cod Seashore; a week later, the Senate passed its version, which didn’t allocate a dime. That’s the point of Conference: finding the differences and reaching a compromise—item by item by item. When the two bills are merged, they go back to the House and Senate for final passage. When both bodies pass the same bill, that’s when it goes to the White House to be signed into law.

“I’ll give you three hundred and fifty thousand,” Trish offers, hoping I’ll be satisfied by half.

“Done,” I tell her, grinning to myself. If she’d pushed, I would’ve settled for an even two hundred.

“The Chesapeake in Maryland,” Trish adds, moving to the next item. I look down at the spreadsheet. Senate gave it six million for stabilization; we gave it nothing.

Trish smiles. That’s why she was kissing tush on the last one. The six million in here was put there by her boss, Senator Ted Apelbaum, who also happens to be the Chairman of the subcommittee—the Senate equivalent of my boss, Cordell. In local slang, the Chairs are known as Cardinals. That’s where the argument ends. What Cardinals want, Cardinals get.

In quiet rooms around the Capitol, the scene is the same. Forget the image of fat-cat Congressmen horse-trading in cigar-smoke-filled backrooms. This is how the sausage is made, and this is how America’s bank account is actually spent: by four staffers sitting around a well-lit conference table without a Congressman in sight. Your tax dollars at work. Like Harris always says: The real shadow government is staff.

My pager again vibrates in my lap. Harris’s message is simple: Panic.

I take another look at the TV. One hundred seventy-two yeas, sixty-four nays.

Sixty-four? I don’t believe it. They’re over halfway there.

How? I type back.

Maybe they have the votes, Harris replies almost instantly.

Can’t be, I send back.

For the next two minutes, Trish lectures about why seven million dollars is far too much to spend on Yellowstone National Park. I barely register a word. On C-SPAN, the nays go from sixty-four to eighty-one. It’s impossible.

“… don’t you agree, Matthew?” Trish asks.

I stay locked on C-SPAN.

“Matthew!” Trish calls out. “You with us or not?”

“Wha?” I say, finally turning toward her.

Tracing my gaze back to its last location, Trish looks over her shoulder and spots the TV. “That’s what you’re so caught up in?” she asks. “Some lame vote for baseball?”

She doesn’t get it. Sure, it’s a vote for baseball, but it isn’t just any vote. It actually dates back to 1922, when the Supreme Court ruled that baseball was a sport—not a business—and therefore was allowed a special exemption from antitrust rules. Football, basketball, all the rest have to comply—but baseball, the Supreme Court decided, was special. Today, Congress is trying to strengthen that exemption, giving owners more control over how big the league gets. For Congress, it’s a relatively simple vote: If you’re from a state with a baseball team, you vote for baseball (even the Reps from rural New York don’t dare vote against the Yankees). If you’re from a state without a team—or from a district that wants a team, like Charlotte or Jacksonville—you vote against it.

When you do the math—and account for political favors by powerful owners—that leaves a clear majority voting for the bill, and a maximum of 100 Members voting against it—105 if they’re lucky. But right now, there’s someone in the Capitol who thinks he can get 110 nays. There’s no way, Harris and I decided. That’s why we bet against it.

“We all ready to hit some issues?” Trish asks, still plowing her way through the Conference list. In the next ten minutes, we allocate three million to repair the sea-wall on Ellis Island, two and a half million to renovate the steps on the Jefferson Memorial, and thirteen million to do a structural upgrade on the bicycle trail and recreation area next to the Golden Gate Bridge. No one puts up much of a fight. Like baseball—you don’t vote against the good stuff.

My pager once again dances in my pocket. Like before, I read it under the table. 97, Harris’s message says.

I can’t believe they’re getting this far. Of course, that’s the fun of playing the game.

In fact, as Harris explained it when he first extended the invitation, the game itself started years ago as a practical joke. As the story goes, a junior Senate staffer was bitching about picking up a Senator’s dry cleaning, so to make him feel better, his buddy on staff snuck the words dry cleaning into a draft of the Senator’s next speech:… although sometimes regarded as dry, cleaning our environment should clearly be a top priority… It was always meant to be a cheap gag—something that’d be taken out before the speech was given. Then one of the staffers dared the other to keep it in.

“I’ll do it,” the staffer threatened.

“No, you won’t,” his friend shot back.

“Wanna bet?”

Right there, the game was born. And that afternoon, the distinguished Senator strolled onto C-SPAN and told the entire nation about the importance of “dry, cleaning.”

In the beginning, they always kept it to small stuff: hidden phrases in an op-ed, an acronym in a commencement speech. Then it got bigger. A few years ago, on the Senate Floor, a Senator who was searching for his handkerchief reached into his jacket pocket and proceeded to wipe his forehead with a pair of women’s silk panties. He quickly laughed it off as an honest mistake made by his laundry service. But it wasn’t an accident.

That was the first time the game broke the envelope—and what caused the organizers to create the current rules. These days, it’s simple: The bills we bet on are ones where the outcome’s clearly decided. A few months back, the Clean Diamond Act passed by a vote of 408 to 6; last week, the Hurricane Shelters Act passed by 401 to 10; and today, the Baseball for America Act was expected to pass by approximately 300 to 100. A clear landslide. And the perfect bill to play on.

When I was in high school, we used to try to guess if Jennifer Luftig would be wearing a bra. In grad school, we made bingo cards with the names of the kids who talked the most, then waited for them to open their mouths. We’ve all played our games. Can you get twelve more votes? Can you get the Vermont Congressmen to vote against it? Can you get the nays up to 110, even when 100 is all that’s reasonably possible? Politics has always been called a game for grown-ups. So why is anyone surprised people would gamble on it?

Naturally, I was skeptical at first, but then I realized just how innocent it really was. We don’t change the laws, or pass bad legislation, or stroke our evil goatees and overthrow democracy as we know it. We play at the margins; that’s where it’s safe—and where it’s fun. It’s like sitting in a meeting and betting how many times the annoying guy in your office uses the word “I.” You can goad him and make your best attempts to alter it, but in the end, the results are pretty much the same. In the world of Capitol Hill, even though we’re split between Ds and Rs, 99 percent of our legislation is passed by overwhelming majorities. It’s only the few controversial bills that make the news. The result is a job that can easily lapse into a repetitive, monotonous grind—that is, unless you find a way to make it interesting.

My pager once again shudders in my fist. 103, Harris sends.

“Okay, what about the White House?” Trish asks, still working her list. This is the one she’s been saving for. In the House, we allocated seven million for structural improvements to the White House complex. The Senate—thanks to Trish’s boss—zeroed the program out.

“C’mon, Trish,” Ezra begs. “You can’t just give ’em a goose egg.”

Trish raises an eyebrow. “We’ll see…”

It’s typical Senate. The only reason Trish’s boss is playing the jerk is because the President has been pushing for a settlement in a racial discrimination lawsuit against the Library of Congress. Trish’s boss, Senator Apelbaum, is one of the few people involved in the negotiation. This close to the elections, he’d rather stall, keep the lawsuit quiet, and keep it out of the press. This is the Senator’s way of pushing back. And from the smug look on Trish’s face, she’s loving every minute of it.

“Why don’t we just split the difference?” Ezra says, knowing our usual mode of compromise. “Give it three and a half million, and ask the President to bring his library card next time.”

“Listen closely…” Trish warns, leaning into the table. “He’s not getting a single muddy peso.”

107, it says on my pager.

I have to smile as it inches closer. Whoever the organizers are—or, as we call them, the dungeon-masters—these guys know what they’re doing. The bets can go from twice a week to once every few months, but when they identify an issue, they always set the game at the perfect level of difficulty. Two months ago, when the new Attorney General came to testify for the Senate Armed Services Committee, the bet was to get one of the Senators to ask the question, “How much of your success do you attribute to the support of your family?” A simple query for any witness, but when you add in the fact that a few days earlier, the Attorney General insisted that public figures should be able to keep their family lives private—well… now we had a horse race. Waiting for the words to be uttered, we watched that achingly boring Senate hearing as if it were the final round of Rocky. Today, I’m glued to a vote that was decided by a majority almost ten minutes ago. Even the baseball lobbyists have turned off their TVs. But I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s not the seventy-five dollars I’ve got riding on the outcome. It’s the challenge. When Harris and I put our money down, we figured they’d never get near 110 votes. Whoever’s on the other side obviously thinks they can. Right now they’re at 107. No doubt, impressive… but it’s the last three that are going to be like shoving a mountain.

108 blinks onto my pager.

A buzzer rings through the air. One more minute left on the official clock.

“So what’s the count at?” Trish asks, swiveling at the sound, back toward the TV.

“Can we please not change the subject?” Ezra begs.

Trish doesn’t care. She’s still scanning the screen.

“Hundred and eight,” I tell her as the C-SPAN number clicks into place.

“I’m impressed,” she admits. “I didn’t think they’d get this far.”

The grin on my face spreads even wider. Could Trish be playing? Six months ago, Harris invited me in—and one day, I’ll invite someone else. All you know are the two people you’re directly connected to: one above, one below. In truth, it’s purely for safety purposes—in case word gets out, you can’t finger someone if you don’t know who they are. Of course, it also brings new meaning to the term anybody’s game.

I look around the room. All three of my colleagues take subtle glances at C-SPAN. Georgia’s too quiet to be a player. Ezra and Trish are a whole different story.

On TV, Congressman Virgil Witt from Louisiana strolls across the screen. Ezra’s boss. “There’s your guy,” Trish says.

“You’re really serious about this Library thing?” Ezra shoots back. He doesn’t care about seeing his boss on television. Around here, it happens every day.

109, my pager says.

On TV, Ezra’s boss once again rushes across the screen.

Under the desk, I type in one last question: How’d Witt vote?

My eyes are on Ezra as the pager rumbles in my hand. Here comes Harris’s answer.

Nay.

Before I can respond, the pager vibrates one last time: 110.

Game over.

I laugh out loud. Seventy-five bucks in the toilet.

“What?” Georgia asks.

“Nothing,” I say, slapping my pager against the top of the conference table. “Just a stupid E-mail.”

“Actually, that reminds me…” Trish begins, pulling out her own pager and checking a quick message.

“Is anyone here not completely distracted?” Ezra asks. “Enough with the friggin’ Blackberries; we’ve got a serious issue—if the White House gets zilched, you know they’ll threaten a veto.”

“No, they won’t,” Trish insists, clicking away on her pager without looking up. “Not this close to the election. They veto now and it’ll look like they’re holding up funding for the entire government just so they can get their driveway repaved.”

Knowing she’s right, Ezra falls unusually silent. I stare him down, searching for the tell. Nothing’s there. If he is playing the game, the guy’s a grandmaster.

“You okay?” he asks, catching my glance.

“Absolutely,” I tell him. “Perfect.” And for the past six months, it’s been exactly that. Blood’s pumping, adrenaline’s raging, and I’ve got an in on the best secret in town. After eight years in the grind, I almost forgot what it felt like. Even losing doesn’t matter. The thrill is in the play.

Like I said, the dungeon-masters know what they’re doing. And lucky for me, they’re about to do it again. Any minute now. I check the clock on the wall. Two o’clock. Exactly at two. That’s what Harris said when I first asked him how we know when the next bet is.

“Don’t worry,” he had said calmly. “They’ll send a signal.”

“A signal? What kinda signal?”

“You’ll see—a signal. That way, when instructions go out, you know to be in your office.”

“But what if I don’t see it? What if I’m on the Floor… or somewhere else in the Capitol? What if the signal goes out and I’m not here when they send it?”

“Trust me, this is one signal you won’t miss,” Harris insisted. “No matter where you are…”

Glancing back over Trish’s shoulder, I eye the TV. Now that the vote’s over, the camera goes back to the Speaker’s rostrum—the multilevel platform the President uses to deliver his State of the Union address. Right now, though, I’m more focused on the small mahogany oval table that’s just in front of it. Every day, the House stenographers sit there, clicking away. Every day, they keep track of everything uttered on the House Floor. And every day, like clockwork, the only objects on that desk are two empty water glasses and the two white coasters they rest on. For two hundred years—according to the rumor—Congress puts out two glasses, one for each side. Every single day. Today, however, is different. Today, if you count the glasses, there’s just one. You can’t miss it. One glass and one coaster.

There’s our code. That’s the signal. One empty water glass, broadcast all day long for the entire world to see.

There’s a soft knock on the door, and all four of us turn at the sound. A young kid wearing gray slacks, a cheap navy blazer, and a blue-and-red-striped tie enters the room. He can’t be more than sixteen, and if the uniform doesn’t give him away, the rectangular nametag on his lapel does. Set off against a black background, the stark white letters read:

House of Representatives Page Nathan Lagahit

He’s one of a few dozen—a high school page who delivers mail and fetches water. The only person on the totem pole lower than an intern.

“I-I’m sorry…” he begins, realizing he’s interrupting. “I’m looking for Matthew Mercer…”

“That’s me,” I say with a wave.

Rushing over, he barely makes eye contact as he hands me the sealed envelope. “Thanks,” I tell him, but he’s already out of the room.

Regular mail can be opened by a secretary. So can interoffice. FedEx requires a return address. And a messenger service would add up to a small fortune if you used it on a regular basis. But the House and Senate pages barely leave a footprint. They’re here every single day, and while all they do is run errands back and forth, they’re the easiest thing to miss. Ghosts in blue blazers. No one sees them come; no one sees them go. And best of all, since the pages get their instructions verbally, there’s no physical record of where a particular package goes.

An empty water glass tells me to be at my desk. A sealed envelope carried by a page tells me what I’m doing next. Welcome to game day.

“Trish, can’t you just meet us in the middle?” Ezra begs as Trish shakes her head.

Refusing to get into it, I angle my chair away from the group and examine the envelope. As always, it’s blank. Not even my name or room number. And if I’d asked the page where he got it from, he’d say someone in the cloakroom asked him to do a favor. After six months, I’m done trying to figure out how the inner workings of the game happen.

Wedging my thumb under the flap of the envelope, I give it a sharp jab and tear it open. Inside, as usual, the notice is the same: a single sheet of paper with the royal blue letterhead of the CAG, the Coalition Against Gambling. The letterhead’s an obvious joke, but it’s the first reminder that this is purely for fun. Underneath, the letter begins, Here are some upcoming issues we’d like to focus on… Just below that is a numbered list of fifteen items that range from:

(3) Convince both Kentucky Senators to vote against Hesselbach’s dairy compact bill to:

(12) Within the next seven days, replace Congressman Edward Berganza’s suit jacket with a tuxedo jacket.

As usual, I go straight to the last item on the list. All the rest are bullshit—a way to throw people off in case a stranger gets his hands on it—but the last one on there… that’s the one that actually counts.

As I read the words, my mouth tips open. I don’t believe it.

“Everything alright?” Trish asks.

When I don’t answer, all three of them turn my way. “Matthew, you still breathing over there?” she repeats.

“Y-Yeah… no… of course,” I say with a laugh. “Just another note from Cordell.”

My three colleagues instantly leap back to their verbal fistfight. I look down at the letter. And for the third time, I reread the words and try to contain my grin.

(15) Insert Congressman Richard Grayson’s land sale project into the Interior House Appropriations bill.

An earmark. A single Interior earmark. I can actually feel the blood rushing to my cheeks. This isn’t just any issue. It’s my issue.

For once in my life, I can’t lose.

3

SO WHAT DO YOU THINK?” I ask as I rush into Harris’s office on the fourth floor of the Russell Senate Office Building. With its arched windows and tall ceilings, it’s nicer than the best office on the House side. The two branches of government are supposed to be equal. Welcome to the Senate.

“You tell me,” Harris says, looking up from some paperwork. “Think you can really put the land sale into the bill?”

“Harris, it’s what I do every day. We’re talking a tiny ask for a project no one would ever possibly look at. Even Congressman Grayson, who made the original request, couldn’t care less about it.”

“Unless he’s playing the game.”

I roll my eyes. “Will you please stop with that?” Since the day he invited me in, it’s been Harris’s most recurring wet dream: that it’s not just staff playing the game—it’s the Members playing as well.

“It’s possible,” he insists.

“Actually, it’s not. If you’re a Member of Congress, you’re not risking your credibility and entire political career for a few hundred bucks and a chess match.”

“Are you joking? These guys get blow jobs in the bathroom of the Capitol Grille. I mean, when they go out for drinks, they have lobbyists trolling the bar and picking out girls so they can leave the place unescorted. You think a few of them wouldn’t get in on the action? Think for a second, Matthew. Even Pete Rose bet on baseball.”

“I don’t care. Grayson’s project isn’t a four-star priority that reaches the Member level—it’s grunt work. And since it’s in my jurisdiction, it’s not getting in there unless I see it. I promise you, Harris—I already checked it out. We’re talking a teeny piece of land in the middle of South Dakota. Land rights belong to Uncle Sam; mineral rights below used to be owned by some long-defunct mining company.”

“It’s a coal mine?”

“This ain’t Pennsylvania, bro. Out in South Dakota, they dig for gold—or at least they used to. The company had been digging the Homestead mine since 1876—true gold rush days. Over time, they applied for a patent to buy the land, but when they sucked out every last drop, the company went bankrupt and the land stayed with the government, which is still dealing with the environmental problems of shutting one of these suckers down. Anyway, a few years back, a company called Wendell Mining decides it can find more gold using newer technologies, so they buy the old company’s claims out of bankruptcy, contact the Bureau of Land Management, and arrange to buy the land.”

“Since when do we sell government land to private companies?”

“How do you think we settled the West, Kimosabe? Most of the time, we even gave it away for free. The problem here is, even though BLM has approved the sale, the Interior Department has them so buried in red tape, it’ll take years to finalize unless they get a friendly congressional push.”

“So Wendell Mining donated some money to local Congressman Grayson and asked him for a bump to the front of the line,” Harris says.

“That’s how it works.”

“And we’re sure about the land? I mean, we’re not selling some nature preserve to some big company who wants to put a mall and a petting zoo on it, are we?”

“Suddenly you’re back to being an idealist?”

“I never left, Matthew.”

He believes what he’s saying. He’s always believed it. Growing up outside Gibsonia, Pennsylvania, Harris wasn’t just the first in his family to go to college—he was the first in his whole town. As silly as it sounds, he came to Washington to change the world. The problem is, a decade later, the world changed him. As a result, he’s the worst kind of cynic—the kind who doesn’t know he’s a cynic.

“If it makes you feel better, I vetted it last year and revetted it months ago,” I tell him. “The gold mine’s abandoned. This town’s dying for Wendell Mining to take over. The town gets jobs, the company gets gold, and most important, once Wendell steps in, the company’s responsible for the hardest part, which is the environmental cleanup. Win, win, win, all around.”

Harris falls silent, picking up the tennis racket that he usually keeps leaning on the side of his desk. I’ve seen the town where Harris grew up. He’d never call himself poor. But I would. Needless to say, they don’t play tennis in Gibsonia. That’s a rich man’s game—but the day Harris got to D.C., he made it his own. To no one’s surprise, he was a complete natural. It’s the same reason he was able to run the Marine Corps Marathon even though he barely trained. Mind over matter. He’s almost there right now.

“So it all checks out?” he asks.

“Every last detail,” I say as my voice picks up speed. “No lie.”

For the first time since I entered his office, I see the quiet, charismatic grin in Harris’s eyes. He knows we’ve got a winner here. A huge winner if we play it smart.

“Okay…” Harris says, bouncing the tennis racket against the palm of his hand. “How much you got in your bank account?”

4

AT EXACTLY 9:35 the following morning, I’m sitting alone at my desk, wondering why my delivery’s late. On C-SPAN, a rabbi from Aventura, Florida, says a short prayer as everyone on the Speaker’s rostrum bows his head. When he’s done, the gavel bangs and the camera pulls out. On the stenographers’ table, the two water glasses are back. Anyone on the Floor could’ve moved them. They’re out there all day long. On my phone, I’ve got seven messages from lobbyists, fourteen from staff, and two from Members—all dying to know if we’ve funded their project. Everything’s back to normal—or as normal as a day like this gets.

I pick up the phone and dial the five-digit extension for our receptionist out front. “Roxanne, if there’re any packages that come in—”

“I heard you the first thirty-four times,” she moans. “I’ll send ’em right back. What’re you waiting for anyway, pregnancy results?”

I don’t bother to answer. “Just make sure—”

“Thirty-five! That’s officially thirty-five times,” she interrupts. “Don’t worry, sweetie—I won’t let you down.”

Ten minutes later, she’s good to her word. The door from reception opens, and a young female page sticks her head in. “I’m looking for—”

“That’s me,” I blurt.

Stepping into the room with her blue blazer and gray slacks, she hands me the sealed manila envelope—and checks out the office.

“That’s not real, is it?” she asks, pointing to the stuffed ferret on a nearby bookcase.

“Thank the NRA lobbyists,” I tell her. “Isn’t it far more practical than sending flowers like everyone else?”

With a laugh, she heads for the door. I look down at the envelope. Yesterday was spent dealing the cards. Today it’s time to ante up.

Ripping open the flap, I turn the envelope upside down and shake. Two dozen squares of paper rain down on my desk. Taxi Receipt, it reads in thick black letters across the top of each one. I shuffle the pile into a neat stack and make sure every one of them is blank. So far, so good.

Grabbing a pen, I eye the section marked Cab Number and quickly scribble the number 727 into the blank. Cab 727. That’s my ID. After that, I put a single check mark in the top right-hand corner of the receipt. There’s the ante: twenty-five dollars if you want to play. I don’t just want to play, though. I want to win, which is why I start with a serious bet. In the blank marked Fare, I write $10.00. To the untrained eye, it’s not much. But to those of us playing, well… that’s why we add a zero. One dollar is ten dollars; five dollars is actually fifty. That’s why they call it the Zero Game. In this case, ten bucks is a solid Benjamin Franklin—the opening bid in the auction.

Reaching into my top drawer, I pull out a fresh manila envelope, open the flap, and sweep the taxicab receipts inside. Time for some interoffice mail. On the front of the envelope, I write Harris Sandler—427 Russell Bldg. Next to the address, I add the word Private, just to be safe. Of course, even if Harris’s assistant opens it—even if the Speaker of the House opens it—I’m not dropping a bead of sweat. I see a hundred-dollar bet. Anyone else sees a ten-dollar taxi receipt—nothing to look twice at.

Stepping into our reception area, I toss the envelope into the rusty metal basket we use as an Out box. Roxanne does most of our interoffice stuff herself. “Roxanne, can you make sure to take this out in the next batch?”

She nods as I turn back to my desk. Just another day.

“Is it there yet?” I ask twenty minutes later.

“Already gone,” Harris answers. From the crackle in his voice, he’s got me on speakerphone. I swear, he’s not afraid of anything.

“You left it blank, right?” I ask.

“No, I ignored everything we discussed. Good-bye, Matthew. Call me when you have news.”

As he’s about to hang up, I hear a click in the background. Harris’s door opening. “Courier’s here,” his assistant calls out.

With a slam, Harris is gone. And so are the taxi receipts. From me to my mentor, from Harris to his. Leaning back in my black vinyl rolling chair, I can’t help but wonder who it is. Harris has been on the Hill since the day he graduated. If he’s an expert at anything, it’s making friends and connections. That narrows the list to a tidy few thousand. But if he’s using a courier, he’s going off campus. I stare out the window at a perfect view of the Capitol dome. The playing field expands before my eyes. Former staffers are everywhere in this town. Law firms… PR boutiques… and most of all…

My phone rings, and I check the digital screen for caller ID.

… lobbying shops.

“Hi, Barry,” I say as I pick up the receiver.

“You’re still standing?” he asks. “I heard you guys were negotiating till ten last night.”

“It’s that time of year,” I tell him, wondering where he got the info. No one saw us leave last night. But that’s Barry. No sight, but somehow he sees it all. “So what can I help you with?”

“Tickets, tickets, and more tickets. This Sunday—Redskins home opener. Wanna see ’em get trounced from insanely overpriced seats? I got the recording industry’s private box. Me, you, Harris—we’ll have ourselves a little reunion.”

Barry hates football, and he can’t see a single play, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like the private catering and the butler that come with those seats. Plus, it gives Barry the temporary upper hand in his ongoing race with Harris. Neither will admit it, but it’s the unspoken game they’ve always played. And while Barry may get us the skybox, come game day, Harris will somehow find the best seat in it. It’s classic Capitol Hill—too many student government presidents in one place.

“Actually, that sounds great. Did you tell Harris?”

“Already done.” The answer doesn’t surprise me. Barry’s closer to Harris—he always calls him first. But that doesn’t mean the reverse is true. In fact, when Harris needs a lobbyist, he sidesteps Barry and goes directly to the man on top.

“So how’s Pasternak treating you?” I ask, referring to Barry’s boss.

“How do you think I got the tickets?” Barry teases. It’s not much of a joke. Especially to Barry. As the firm’s hungriest associate, he’s been trying to leap out from the pack for years, which is why he’s always asking Harris to throw him a Milk-Bone. Last year, when Harris’s boss changed his stance on telecom deregulation, Barry even asked if he could be the one to bring the news to the telecom companies. “Nothing personal,” Harris had said, “but Pasternak gets it first.” In politics, like the mob, the best presents have to start up top.

“God bless him, though,” Barry adds about his boss. “The guy’s an old master.” There’s no arguing with that. As the founding partner of Pasternak & Associates, Bud Pasternak is respected, connected, and truly one of the kindest guys on Capitol Hill. He’s also Harris’s first boss—back from the days when Harris was running the pen-signing machine—and the person who gave Harris his first big break: an early draft of a speech for the Senator’s reelection bid. From there, Harris never touched the auto-pen again.

I study the arched windows on the side of the Capitol. Pasternak invited Harris; Harris invited me. It’s gotta be, right?

I chat with Barry for another fifteen minutes to see if I hear a courier arrive in the background. His office is only a few blocks away. The courier never comes.

An hour and a half later, there’s another knock on my door. The instant I see the blue blazer and gray slacks, I’m out of my seat.

“I take it you’re Matthew,” a page with black hair and an awkward underbite says.

“You got it,” I say as he hands me the envelope.

As I rip it open, I take a quick survey of my three office mates, who are sitting at their respective desks. Roy and Connor are on my left. Dinah’s on my right. All three of them are over forty years old—both men have professorship beards; Dinah’s got an unapologetic fanny pack with the Smithsonian logo on it—professional staffers hired for their budget expertise.

Congressmen come and go. So do Democrats and Republicans. But these three stay forever. It’s the same on all the Appropriations subcommittees. With all the different power shifts, no matter which party’s in charge, someone has to know how to run the government. It’s one of the few examples of nonpartisan trust in the entire Capitol. Naturally, my boss hates it. So when he took over the subcommittee, he put me in this position to look out for his best interests and keep an eye on them. But as I open my unmarked envelope, they’re the ones who should be watching me.

Dumping the contents on my desk, I spot the expected pile of taxi receipts. This time, though, while most of the receipts are still blank, one’s filled in. The handwriting’s clearly male: tiny chicken scratch that doesn’t lean left or right. The fare’s listed at fifty bucks. Unreal. One round and we’re already up to five hundred dollars. Fine by me.

Harris calls it the Congressional Pissing Contest. I call it Name That Tune. All across the Capitol, House and Senate pages deliver blank taxicab receipts to people around the Hill. We all put in our bids and pass them up to whoever invited us into the game, who then passes them to their sponsor, and so on. We’ve never figured out how far it goes, but we do know it’s not a single straight line—that’d take too long. Instead, it’s broken up into branches. I start our branch and pass it to Harris. Somewhere else, another player starts his branch. There could be four branches; there could be forty. But at some point, the various bets make their way back to the dungeon-masters, who collect, coalesce, and start the process again.

Last round, I bid one hundred dollars. Right now, the top bid is five hundred. I’m about to increase it. In the end, whoever bids the most “buys” the right to make the issue their own. Highest bidder has to make the proposition happen, whether it’s getting 110 votes on the baseball bill or inserting a tiny land project into Interior Approps. Everyone else who antes in tries to make sure it doesn’t happen. If you pull it off, you get the entire pot, including every dollar that’s been put in (minus a small percentage to the dungeon-masters, of course). If you fail, the money gets split among everyone who was working against you.

I study the cab number on the five-hundred-dollar receipt: 326. Doesn’t tell me squat. But whoever 326 is, they clearly think they’ve got the inside track. They’re wrong.

Staring down at a blank receipt, I’ve got my pen poised. Next to Cab Number, I write the number 727. Next to Fare, I put $60.00. Six hundred now, plus the $125.00 I put in before. If the bet gets too high, I can always drop out by leaving the dollar amount blank. But this isn’t the time to fold. It’s time to win. Stuffing all the receipts into a new envelope, I seal it up, address it to Harris, and walk it out front. Interoffice mail won’t take long.

It’s not until one-thirty that the next envelope hits my desk. The receipt I’m looking for has the same chicken scratch as before. Cab number 326. The fare is $100.00. One thousand even. That’s what happens when the entire bet is centered on an issue that can be decided with a single well-placed phone call. Everyone in this place thinks they’ve got the jags to get it done. And they may. But for once, we’ve got more.

I close my eyes and work the math in my head. If I go too fast, I’ll scare 326 off. Better to go slow and drag him along. With a flourish, I fill in a fare of $150.00. Fifteen hundred. And still counting.

By a quarter after three, my stomach’s rumbling and I’m starting to get cranky—but I still don’t go to lunch. Instead, I gnaw through the last handfuls of Grape-Nuts that Roy keeps hidden in his desk. The cereal doesn’t last long. I still don’t move. We’re too close to gift-wrapping this up. According to Harris, no bet’s ever gone for more than nineteen hundred bucks—and that was only because they got to mess with Teddy Kennedy.

“Matthew Mercer?” a page with cropped blond hair asks from the door. I wave the kid inside.

“You’re popular today,” Dinah says as she hangs up her phone.

“Blame the Senate,” I tell her. “We’re battling over language, and Trish not only doesn’t trust faxes, but she won’t put it on E-mail because she’s worried it’s too easy to forward to the lobbyists.”

“She’s right,” Dinah says. “Smart girl.”

Turning my chair just enough so Dinah can’t see, I open the envelope and peer inside. I swear, I feel my testicles tighten. I don’t believe it. It’s not the amount, which is now up to three thousand dollars. It’s the brand-new cab number: 189. The handwriting is squat and blocky. There’s another player in the game. And he’s clearly not afraid to spend some cash.

My phone screams, and I practically leap from my chair. Caller ID says it’s Harris.

“How we doing?” he asks as soon as I pick up.

“Not bad, though the language still isn’t there yet.”

“You got someone in the room?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, keeping my back to Dinah. “And a new section I’ve never seen before.”

“Another player? What’s the number?”

“One-eighty-nine.”

“That’s the guy who won yesterday—with the baseball bill.”

“You sure?”

It’s a dumb question. Harris lives and breathes this stuff. He doesn’t get it wrong.

“Think we should worry?” I ask.

“Not if you can deliver.”

“Oh, I’ll deliver,” I insist.

“Then don’t stress. If anything, I’m happy,” Harris adds. “With two bidders out there, the pot’s that much bigger. And if he won yesterday, he’s cocky and careless. That’s the perfect time to swipe his pants.”

Nodding to myself, I hang up the phone and stare down at the cab receipt with the block writing.

“Everything okay?” Dinah asks from her desk. Scribbling as fast as I can, I up the bet to four thousand dollars and slide the receipt into the envelope. “Yeah,” I say as I head for the metal Out box up front. “Just perfect.”

The envelope comes back within an hour, and I ask the page to wait so he can take it directly to Harris. Roxanne’s done enough interoffice delivery service. Better to mix it up so she doesn’t get suspicious. Clawing my way into the envelope, I search for the signal that we’ve got the top bid. Instead, I find another receipt. Cab number 189. Fare of five hundred dollars. Five grand—plus everything else we already put in.

For one picosecond, I hesitate, wondering if it’s time to fold. Then I remind myself we’re holding all the aces. And the jokers. And the wild cards. 189 may have the cash, but we’ve got the whole damn deck. He’s not scaring us off.

I grab a blank receipt from the envelope and write in my cab number. In the blank next to Fare, I jot $600.00. That’s a pretty rich cab ride.

Exactly twelve minutes after the page leaves my office, my phone rings. Harris just got his delivery.

“You sure this is smart?” he asks the instant I pick up. From the echo, I’m back on speakerphone.

“Don’t worry, we’re fine.”

“I’m serious, Matthew. This isn’t Monopoly money we’re playing with. If you add up the separate bets, we’re already in for over six thousand. And now you wanna add another six grand on top of that?”

When we were talking about limits last night, I told Harris I had a little over eight thousand dollars in the bank, including all my down-payment money. He said he had four grand at the most. Maybe less. Unlike me, Harris sends part of his paycheck to an uncle in Pennsylvania. His parents died a few years back, but… family’s still family.

“We can still cover it,” I tell him.

“That doesn’t mean we should put it all on black.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Harris insists. “I just… maybe it’s time to catch our breath and walk away. No reason to risk all our money. We can just bet the other side, and you’ll make sure the project never gets in the bill.”

That’s how it works—if you don’t have the high bid, you and the rest of the low bidders shift to the other side and try to stop it from taking place. It’s a great way to even the odds: The person with the best chance of making it happen faces off against a group that, once combined, has an amazing amount of muscle. There’s only one problem. “You really want to split the winnings with everyone else?”

He knows I’m right. Why give everyone a free ride?

“If you want to ease the stakes, maybe we can invite someone else in,” I suggest.

Right there, Harris stops. “What’re you saying?”

He thinks I’m trying to find out who’s above him on the list.

“You think it’s Barry, don’t you?” he asks.

“Actually, I think it’s Pasternak.”

Harris doesn’t reply, and I grin to myself. Pasternak may be the closest thing he has to a mentor, but Harris and I go back to my freshman year. You can’t lie to old friends.

“I’m not saying you’re right,” he begins. “But either way, my guy’s not gonna go for it. Especially this late. I mean, even assuming 189 is teaming up with his own mentor, that’s still a tractorful of cash.”

“And it’ll be two tractorfuls when we win. There’s gotta be over twenty-five grand in the pot. Think about the check you’ll send home after that.”

Even Harris can’t argue with that one.

There’s a crackle on the line. He takes me off speakerphone. “Just tell me one thing, Matthew—can you really make this happen?”

I’m silent, working every possibility. He’s just as quiet, counting every consequence. It’s the opposite of our standard dance. For once, I’m confidence; he’s concern.

“So can you pull this off?” Harris repeats.

“I think so,” I tell him.

“No, no, no, no, no… Forget ‘think so.’ I can’t afford ‘think so.’ I’m asking you as a friend—honestly, no bullshit. Can you pull this off?”

It’s the first time I hear the tinge of panic in Harris’s voice. He’s not afraid to leap off the edge of the cliff, but like any smart politician, he needs to know what’s in the river below. The good thing is, in this one case, I’ve got the life preserver.

“This baby’s mine,” I tell him. “The only one closer is Cordell himself.”

The silence tells me he’s unconvinced.

“You’re right,” I add sarcastically. “It’s too risky—we should walk away now.”

The silence is even longer.

“I swear to you, Harris. Cordell doesn’t care about table scraps. This is what I’m hired to do. We won’t lose.”

“You promise?”

As he asks the question, I stare out the window at the dome of the Capitol. “On my life.”

“Don’t get melodramatic on me.”

“Fine, then here’s pragmatic. Know what the golden rule of Appropriations is? He who has the gold makes the rule.”

“And we got the gold?”

“We got the gold.”

“You sure about that?”

“We’ll know soon enough,” I say with a laugh. “Now, you in?”

“You already filled out the slip, didn’t you?”

“But you’re the one who has to send it on.”

There’s another crackle. I’m back on speakerphone. “Cheese, I need you to deliver a package,” he calls out to his assistant.

There we go. Back in business.

The clock hits 7:30 and there’s a light knock on my office door. “All clear?” Harris asks, sticking his head inside.

“C’mon in,” I say, motioning him toward my desk. With everyone gone, we might as well speed things along.

As he enters the office, he lowers his chin and flashes a thin grin. It’s a look I don’t recognize. Newfound trust? Respect?

“You wrote on your face,” he says.

“What’re you…?”

He smiles and taps his finger against his cheek. “Blue cheek. Very Duke.”

Licking my fingers, I scrub the remaining ink from my face and ignore the joke.

“By the way, I saw Cordell in the elevator,” he says, referring to my boss.

“He say anything?”

“Nothing much,” Harris teases. “He feels bad that all those years ago, you signed up for his campaign and drove him around to all those events without knowing he’d eventually turn into an asshole. Then he said he was sorry for dropping every environmental issue for whatever gets him on TV.”

“That’s nice. I’m glad he’s big enough to admit it.” My face has a smile, but Harris can always see deeper. When we came here, Harris believed in the issues; I believed in a person. It’s the latter that’s more dangerous.

Harris sits on the corner of my desk, and I follow his gaze to the TV, which, as always, is locked on C-SPAN. As long as the House is in session, the pages are still on call. And from the looks of it—with Wyoming Congresswoman Thelma Lewis gripping the podium and blathering away—we’ve got some time. Mountain standard time, to be precise. Right now, it’s 5:30 in Casper, Wyoming—prime news hour—which is why Lewis waited until late in the day to make her big speech, and why Members from New Mexico, North Dakota, and Utah are all in line behind her. Why fall in the woods if no one’s there to hear?

“Democracy demographics,” I mutter.

“If they were smart, they’d wait another half hour,” Harris points out. “That’s when the local news numbers really kick in and—”

Before he can finish, there’s a knock on my door. “Matthew Mercer?” a female page with brown bangs asks as she approaches with an envelope.

Harris and I share a fast glance. This is it.

She hands me the envelope, and I struggle to play it cool.

“Wait… aren’t you Harris?” she blurts.

He doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”

“At orientation… you gave that speech.”

I roll my eyes, not surprised. Every year, Harris is one of four staffers asked to speak at the orientation for the pages. To most, it’s a suck job. Not to Harris. The other three speakers drone on about the value of government. Harris gives them the locker room speech from Hoosiers and tells them they’ll be writing the future. Every year, the fan club grows.

“That was really amazing what you said,” she adds.

“I meant every word,” Harris tells her. And he did.

I can’t take my eyes off the envelope. “Harris, we should really…”

“I’m sorry,” the page says. She can’t take her eyes off him. And not because of the speech. Harris’s square shoulders… his dimpled chin… even his strong black eyebrows—he’s always had a classic look—like someone you see in an old black-and-white photograph from the 1930s, but who somehow still looks good today. All you have to add are the deep green eyes… He’s never had to work it.

“Listen, you… you have a great one,” the page adds, still staring as she leaves.

“You, too,” Harris says.

“Can you shut the door behind you?” I call out.

The door slams with a bang, and Harris yanks the envelope from my hands. If we were in college, I’d tackle him and grab it back. Not anymore. Today, the games are bigger.

Harris slides his finger along the flap and casually flips it open. I don’t know how he keeps his composure. My blond hair is already damp with sweat; his black locks are dry as hay.

Searching for calm, I turn toward the Grand Canyon photo on the wall. The first time my parents took me there, I was fifteen years old—and already six feet tall. Staring down from the south rim of the canyon was the first time in my life I felt small. I feel the same way next to Harris.

“What’s it say?” I demand.

He peeks inside and stays totally silent. If the bet’s been raised, there’ll be a new receipt inside. If we’re top dog, our old slip of paper is the only thing we’ll find. I try to read his face. I don’t have a prayer. He’s been in politics too long. The crease in his forehead doesn’t twitch. His eyes barely blink.

“I don’t believe it,” he finally says. He pulls out the taxi receipt and cups it in the palm of his hand.

“What?” I ask. “Did he raise it? He raised it, didn’t he? We’re dead…”

“Actually,” Harris begins, looking up to face me and slowly raising an excited eyebrow, “I’d say we’re very much alive.” In his hand he flashes the taxi receipt like a police badge. It’s my handwriting. Our old bet. For six thousand dollars.

I laugh out loud the moment I see it.

“It’s payday, Matthew. Now, you ready to name that tune…?”

5

MORNING, ROXANNE,” I call out as I enter the office the following day. “We all set?”

“Just like you asked,” she replies without looking up. Crossing into the back room, I find Dinah, Connor, and Roy in their usual positions at their desks, already lost in paperwork and Conference notes. This time of year, that’s all we do—build the twenty-one-billion-dollar Rosemary’s Baby.

“They’re waiting for you in the hearing room,” Dinah points out.

“Thanks,” I say as I snatch my notebooks from my desk and head for the oversized beige door that leads next door.

It’s one thing to bet on the fact that I can sneak this item past the Senate folks and into the bill. It’s entirely another to make it happen.

“Nice to be on time,” Trish scolds as I enter the room. I’m the last of the four horsemen to arrive. It’s intentional. Let ’em think I’m not anxious about the agenda. As usual, Ezra’s on my side of the oval table; Trish and Georgia, our Senate counterparts, are on the other. On the right-hand wall, there’s a black-and-white Ansel Adams photograph of Yosemite National Park. The photo shows the clear glass surface of the Merced River dominated by the snow-covered mountain peak of Half Dome overhead. Some people need coffee; I need the outdoors. Like the Grand Canyon picture in my office, the image brings instant calm.

“So, anything new?” Trish asks, wondering what I’ve got up my sleeve.

“Nope,” I reply, wondering the same about her. We both know the pre-Conference tango. Every day, there’s a new project that one of our bosses “forgot” to put in the bill. Last week, I gave her three hundred thousand dollars for manatee protection in Florida; she returned the favor by giving me four hundred thousand to fund a University of Michigan study of toxic mold. As a result, the Senator from Florida and the Congressman from Michigan now have something to brag about during the elections. Around here, the projects are known as “immaculate conceptions.” Political favors that—poof—appear right out of thin air.

I’ve got a mental list of every project—including the gold mine—that I need to squeeze in by the time pre-Conference is done. Trish has the same. Neither of us wants to show our hand first. So for two hours, we stick to the script.

“FDR’s presidential library,” Trish begins. “Senate gave it six million. You gave it four million.”

“Compromise at five mil?” I ask.

“Done.”

“Over to Philadelphia,” I say. “What about the new walkways for Independence Hall? We gave it nine hundred thousand; the Senate, for some reason, zeroed it out.”

“That was just to teach Senator Didio to keep his mouth shut. He took a crack at my boss in Newsweek. We’re not gonna stand for that.”

“Do you have any idea how vindictive and childish that is?”

“Not half as vindictive as what they do in Transpo. When one of the Senators from North Carolina pissed off that subcommittee Chairman, they cut Amtrak’s funding so the trains wouldn’t stop in Greensboro.”

I shake my head. Gotta love appropriators. “So you’ll give full funding to the Liberty Bell?”

“Of course,” Trish says. “Let freedom ring.”

By noon, Trish is looking at her watch, ready for lunch. If she’s got a project in her pants, she’s playing it extra cool—which is why, for the first time today, I start wondering if I should put mine out there first.

“Meet back here at one?” she asks. I nod and slam my three-ring binder shut. “By the way,” she adds as I head back to my office, “there’s one other thing I almost forgot…”

I stop right there and spin around. It takes every muscle in my face to hide my grin.

“It’s this sewer project in Marblehead, Mass,” Trish begins. “Senator Schreck’s hometown.”

“Oh, crap,” I shoot back. “That reminds me—I almost forgot about this land sale I was supposed to ask you about for Grayson.”

Trish cocks her head like she believes me. I do the same for her. Professional courtesy.

“How much is the sewer?” I ask, trying hard not to push.

“Hundred and twenty thousand. What about the land sale?”

“Doesn’t cost a thing—they’re trying to buy it from us. But the request is coming from Grayson.”

She barely moves as I say Grayson’s name. If memory serves, she had a run-in with him a few years back. It wasn’t pretty. Rumors said he made a pass. But if she wants revenge, she’s not showing it.

“What’s on the land now?” she asks.

“Dust… rabbit turds… all the good stuff. What they want is the gold mine underneath.”

“They taking cleanup responsibility?”

“Absolutely. And since they’re buying the land, we’ll actually be getting money on this one. I’m telling you, it’s a good deal.”

She knows I’m right. Under current mining law, if a company wants to dig for gold or silver on public land, all they have to do is stake a claim and fill out some paperwork. After that, the company can take whatever they want for free. Thanks to the mining lobby—who’ve managed to keep the same law on the books since 1872—even if a company pulls millions in gold from government property, they don’t have to give Uncle Sam a single nugget in royalties. And if they buy the land at old mining rates, they get to keep the land when they’re done. Like Trish said, let freedom ring.

“And what’s BLM say?” she asks, referring to the Bureau of Land Management.

“They already approved it. The sale’s just caught up in red tape—that’s why they want the language to give it a push.”

Standing behind the oval table, Trish shifts her jaw off center, trying to put a dollar value on my ask. Feeling like spectators, Ezra and Georgia do the same.

“Let me call my office,” Trish finally says.

“There’s a telephone in the meeting room,” I say, pointing her and Georgia next door.

As the side door slams behind them, Ezra packs up his own notebooks. “Think they’ll go for it?” he asks.

“Depends how bad she wants her sewer, right?”

Ezra nods, and I turn back to the black-and-white Yosemite photo on the wall. Following my eyes, Ezra does the same. We stare silently at it for at least thirty seconds.

“I don’t get it,” Ezra finally blurts.

“Get what?”

“Ansel Adams—the whole über-photographer thing. I mean, all the guy did was take some black-and-white photos of the outdoors. Why the big fuss?”

“It’s not just the photo,” I explain. “It’s the idea.” With my open palm facing the photo, I circle the entire snow-capped peak. “Just the mere image of a completely wide-open space… There’s only one place that could’ve been taken. It’s America. And the idea of protecting huge swaths of land from development just so people could stare and enjoy it—that’s an American ideal. We invented it. France, England… all of Europe—they took their open spaces and built castles and cities on them. Over here, although we certainly do our share of development, we also set aside huge chunks and called them national parks. I mean, Europeans say the only American art form is jazz. They’re wrong. That purple mountain’s majesty—that’s the John Coltrane of the outdoors.”

Ezra cocks his head slightly to take a better look. “I still don’t see it.”

Turning my head, I wait for the side door to open. It stays shut. I already feel the drips of sweat trickling from my armpits down my rib cage. Trish has been gone too long.

“You doing okay?” Ezra asks, reading my complexion. “Yeah… just hot,” I say, unbuttoning the top of my shirt. If Trish is playing the game, we’re in severe…

Before I can finish, the doorknob clicks and the side door swings open. As Trish reenters the room, I try to read the look on her face. I might as well be trying to read Harris. Cradling her three-ring binder like a girl in junior high, she shifts her weight from one leg to another. I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to ignore the numbers floating through my brain. Twelve thousand dollars. Every nickel I’ve saved for the past few years. And the twenty-five-grand reward. It all comes down to this.

“I’ll trade you the sewer for the gold mine,” Trish blurts.

“Done,” I shoot back.

We both nod to consummate the deal. Trish marches off to lunch. I march back to my office.

And just like that, we’re standing in the winner’s circle.

“That’s it?” Harris asks, his voice squawking through my receiver.

“That’s it,” I repeat from my almost empty office. Everyone’s at lunch but Dinah, who, like the phone beast she is, is on a call with someone else. I still watch what I say. “When the Members vote for the bill—which they always do since it’s filled with goodies for themselves—we’re all done.”

“And you’re sure you don’t have any uptight Members who’ll read through the bill and take the gold mine out?” Harris asks.

“Are you kidding? These people don’t read. Last year, the omnibus bill was over eleven hundred pages long. I barely read it, and that’s my job. More important, once it comes out of Conference, it’s a big stack of paper covered in Post-it notes. They put a few copies on the House side and some more on the Senate. That’s their only chance to examine it—an hour or so before the vote. Trust me, even the Citizens Against Government Waste—y’know, that group that finds the fifty-thousand-dollar study on Aborigine sweat the government funded—even they only find about a quarter of the fat we hide in there.”

“You really gave fifty grand to study Aborigine sweat?” Harris asks.

“Don’t laugh. Last month, when scientists announced a huge leap in the cure for meningitis, guess where the breakthrough came from?”

“Aborigine sweat.”

“That’s right—Aborigine sweat. Think about that next time you read about pork in the paper.”

“Great—I’m on the lookout,” Harris says. “Now you have everything else?”

Reaching into the jacket pocket of my suit, I pull out a white letter-sized envelope. Checking it for the seventh time today, I open the flap and stare at the two cashier’s checks inside. One’s for $4,000.00. The other’s for $8,225.00. One from Harris, the other from me. Both are made out to cash. Completely untraceable.

“Right here in front of me,” I say as I seal the lettersized envelope and slide it into a bigger manila mailer.

“They still haven’t picked it up?” Harris asks. “It’s usually promptly at noon.”

“Don’t stress yourself—they’ll be here…”

There’s a soft, polite cough as the door to our office peeks open. “I’m looking for Matt…?” an African-American page says as he clears his throat and steps inside.

“… any second,” I tell Harris. “Gotta run—business calls.”

I hang up the phone and wave the page inside. “I’m Matthew. C’mon in.”

As the page approaches my desk, it’s the first time I notice he’s wearing a blue suit instead of the standard blazer and gray slacks. This guy isn’t a House page; he’s from the Senate. Even the pages dress nicer over there.

“How’s everything going?” I ask.

“Pretty good. Just tired of all the walking.”

“It’s a real haul from the Senate, huh?”

“They tell me where to go—I got no choice,” he laughs. “Now, you got a package for me?”

“Right here.” I seal the oversized envelope, jot the word Private across the back, and reach across the desk to put it in his hands. Unlike the other page visits, this isn’t a drop-off. It’s a pickup. The day after the bidding, the dungeon-masters expect you to cover your bet.

“So you know where this one’s going?” I ask, always searching for extra info.

“Back to the cloakroom,” he says with a shrug. “They take it from there.”

As he grabs the envelope, I notice a silver ring on his thumb. And another on his pointer finger. I didn’t think they let pages wear jewelry.

“So what’s with the stuffed fox?” he adds, motioning with his chin toward the bookcase.

“It’s a ferret. Courtesy of the NRA.”

“The what?”

“The NRA—y’know, National Rifle—”

“Yeah, yeah… no, I thought you said something else,” he interrupts, rubbing his hand over his closely buzzed hair. The ring on his pointer finger catches the light perfectly. He smiles with a big, toothy grin.

I smile right back. But it’s not until that moment that I realize I’m about to hand twelve thousand dollars to a complete stranger.

“Be safe now,” he sings as he grabs the package and pivots toward reception.

He disappears through the door. The bet’s officially on. And I’m left staring at the back of someone’s head. It’s not a good feeling, and not just because he’s carrying every dollar I own and all the savings of my best friend. It’s more primal than that—something I feel in the last vertebra of my spine. It’s like closing one eye when you’re looking at a 3-D image in a View-Master viewer—nothing’s necessarily wrong, but it’s also not quite right.

I glance at Dinah, who’s still haggling on the phone. I’ve got another half hour before I have to resume the battle with Trish. Plenty of time for a quick run to the Senate cloakroom to check things out. I hop from my seat and race around my desk. Curiosity was good enough for the cat. Why shouldn’t it be good enough for me?

“Where you going?” Dinah calls out as I rush for the door.

“Lunch. If Trish starts bitching, tell her I won’t be long…”

She gives me the okay sign, and I dart through reception. The page can’t have more than a thirty-second head start.

Darting into the hallway, I turn a quick corner and make a right at the elevators. I spot him about a hundred feet ahead. His arms are swinging at his side. Not a worry in the world. As his shoes tap against the terrazzo floor, I assume he’s headed for the underground tram that’ll take him back to the Capitol. To my surprise, he makes a sharp right and disappears down a short flight of stairs. Keeping my distance, I make the same right and follow the stairs down past a pair of Capitol police officers. On my left, the officers herd arriving staff and visitors through the X-ray and metal detector. Straight ahead, the glass door that leads out to Independence Avenue swings shut. Underground is faster. Why’s he going outside?

But as I shove my way through the door and hop down the outdoor steps, it makes a bit more sense. The sidewalk’s packed with fellow employees who are just now coming back from lunch. The September day is overcast, but the weather’s still warm. If he’s walking the halls all day, maybe he’s just after some fresh air. Besides, there’s more than one way to cut across to the Capitol.

I keep telling myself that as he heads up the block. Five steps later, he reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a cell phone. Maybe that’s it—reception’s better outside—but as he presses the phone to his ear, he does the oddest thing of all. At the corner of Independence and South Capitol, all he has to do is make a left and cut across the street. Instead, he pauses a moment—and makes a right. Away from the Capitol.

My Adam’s apple swells in my throat. What the hell is going on?

6

ON THE CORNER of Independence and South Capitol, the page turns back to see if anyone’s behind him. I duck behind a group of staffers, once again cursing my height. The page doesn’t even notice. I’m too far back to be seen. By the time I peek up again, he’s long gone. Around the corner.

Racing full speed, I fly up toward the corner, my shoes pounding against the concrete. From here, Independence Avenue rises at a slight incline. It doesn’t even slow me down.

I inch my head around the corner, and the page is halfway down South Capitol. He’s fast. Even though he’s on the phone, he knows where he’s going.

Unsure what to do, I go with my first instinct. Whipping out my own phone, I dial Harris’s number. Nothing but voice mail, which means he’s either on the line or out to lunch. I call back again, hoping his assistant will pick up. He doesn’t.

I try to tell myself it still makes sense. Maybe this is how the dungeon-masters play it—the last transfer gets dropped off campus. There’s gotta be someplace that’s the actual home base. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. But that doesn’t make the reality pill any easier to swallow. He’s got our money. I want to know where it’s going.

At the end of the block, the page makes a left on C Street and disappears around another corner. I take off after him, carefully angling behind every staffer I can find. Anything to keep myself out of his direct line of sight.

As he turns right on New Jersey Avenue, I’m at least 150 feet behind him. He’s still moving fast, yakking away on his phone. By now, fellow staffers and the congressional office buildings are long gone. We’re in the residential section of Capitol Hill—brick townhouse squeezed next to brick townhouse. I walk on the other side of the pothole-filled street, pretending I’m looking for my parked car. It’s a lame excuse, but if he spins around, at least he won’t see me. The only problem is, the further we go, the more the neighborhood shape-shifts around us.

Within two minutes, the brick townhouses and tree-lined streets give way to chain-link fences and broken bottles scattered across the concrete. An illegally parked car has a yellow metal boot on its front tire. A Jeep across the street has its back window smashed, creating an oval black hole at the center of the shattered glass. It’s the great irony of Capitol Hill—we’re supposed to run the country, but we can’t even keep up the neighborhood.

Diagonally up the street, the page still has his cell pressed against his ear. He’s too far. I can’t hear a word. But I can see it in his stride. There’s a new glide in his walk. His whole body bounces to the right with each step. I try to imagine the polished kid who quietly coughed his way into my office barely five blocks ago. He’s long gone.

Instead, the page bounces along, tapping the envelope—filled with our money—against his thigh. He moves without a hint of hesitation. To me, this is a rough neighborhood. To the page, this is home.

Up ahead, the street rises slightly, then levels off just below the overpass for I-395 that runs perpendicular overhead. As the page nears the overpass, he once again glances back to see if anyone’s following. I duck behind a black Acura, slamming my shoulder into the side mirror. There’s a loud chirp. Oh, no. I shut my eyes tight. And the Acura’s alarm explodes, howling like a police siren.

Hitting the sidewalk chest-first, I scramble on my elbows to the front of the car and pray he doesn’t stop. In this neighborhood, alarms go off all the time. Lying on my stomach, I rest my weight on my elbows, which already feel damp. A single sniff tells me I’m lying in a puddle of grease. My suit’s ruined. But right now, that’s the least of my problems. I count to ten and slowly crawl back to the sidewalk. The alarm’s still screaming. I’m on the passenger side, my head still ducked down. Last I saw him, he was diagonally up the street. I slowly pick my head up and take a quick peek. There’s no one there. I crane my neck in every direction. The page is gone. And so’s our money.

In full panic, I’m tempted to run toward the overpass, but I’ve seen enough movies to know that the moment you rush in blindly, there’s always someone lying in wait. Instead, I stay crouched down, slowly chicken-walking up the block. There’re enough parked cars along the street to keep me hidden all the way up to the overpass, but it doesn’t calm me down a bit. My heart’s punching against my chest. My throat’s so dry, I can barely swallow. Car by car, I carefully inch toward the overpass. The closer I get, the more I hear the droning hum of traffic along 395—and the less I hear what’s right in front of me.

There’s a metal clink to my left, and an empty beer can comes tumbling down the concrete incline underneath the overpass. I go to run, but then I spot the sharp flap of wings on the pigeon that set it in motion. The bird flies out from the overpass and disappears in the gray sky. Even with the clouds hovering above, it’s still bright as noon outside, but under the overpass, the shadows at the top of the incline are dark as a forest.

I step out from behind a maroon Cutlass, and the No Parking sign takes away the last of my hiding spots. As I enter the underpass, I look up toward the shadows and tell myself no one’s there. The buzz of traffic whizzes by overhead. As each car hits the overpass, it’s a swarm of bees buzzing above. But I’m still all alone underneath. I look back down the block, retracing my steps. No one’s there. No one but me. In a sketchy neighborhood. Without anyone knowing where I am.

What am I, insane? I spin around and walk away. He can keep the money, for all I care; it’s not worth my li—

There’s a muffled clacking in the distance. Like dice on a gameboard. I twist back to follow the sound. Further down. On the other side of the overpass. I don’t see it at first. Then I hear it again. I dart behind one of the enormous concrete pillars that hold the highway overpass in place. Above my head, the bees continue to buzz. But down here, I focus on the sound of the dice, downhill from where I’m standing. From my angle, it’s still obscured. Heading deeper into the overpass, I rush from my pillar to one directly ahead. Another die moves across the board. Angling my head around the concrete column, I take my first full look. Outside the overpass, cars once again line the street. But what I’m looking for isn’t directly in front of me. It’s off to the left.

Up the block, a dip in the sidewalk leads to a gravel driveway. In the driveway, there’s a rusted old industrial Dumpster. And right next to the Dumpster is the source of the noise. Dice against a gameboard. Or tiny stones being kicked by someone’s feet.

Dead ahead, the page makes his way up the gravel driveway—and in one quick movement, takes off his suit jacket, yanks off his tie, and skyhooks both items up and into the open Dumpster. Without even a pause, he heads back to the sidewalk, looking happy to be free of the monkey suit. It doesn’t make sense.

My Adam’s apple now feels like a softball in my throat. The page steps out of the driveway, once again kicking the stones at his feet. As he fades up the block, he’s still tapping the envelope against his thigh. And for the first time, I wonder if I’m even looking at a page.

How could I be so stupid? I didn’t even get his name…

… tag. His nametag. On his jacket.

My eyes zip toward the Dumpster, then back to the page. At the end of the block, he makes a hard left and vanishes from sight. I give him a solid few seconds to double back. He doesn’t. That’s my cue. Even with his head start, there’s still time to catch up with him, but before I do…

I spring out from behind the pillar, dash down the sidewalk, and leave the overpass behind. Rushing across the gravel driveway, I go straight for the Dumpster. It’s too tall to see inside. Even for me. On the side, there’s a groove that’s just deep enough to get a toehold. My suit’s already ruined. Up and over…

With a sharp yank, I tug myself up to the top of the Dumpster. Scootching around, I let my feet dangle inside. It’s like the edge of a swimming pool. But scummier. And with a nauseating acidic stench. Taking one last look around, I spot a pink building with a neon sign that reads, Platinum Gentleman’s Club. No one else is in sight. In this neighborhood, all the action’s at night.

I stare back down at the pool of Hefty bags and push off with a soft nudge.

My feet pound through the plastic. I expect a crunch. Instead, I get a squish. My dress shoes fill with liquid. My socks suck it up like a sponge. Waist-deep in garbage, I tell myself it’s just beer.

Wading toward the back corner of the Dumpster, I keep my arms above my shoulders, careful not to touch anything. Lunging forward, I snag the navy suit jacket, hold it above the trash, and go straight for the blue nametag.

Senate Page

Viv Parker

What’s a girl’s name doing on a guy’s jacket? Unhooking the nametag from the lapel, I check to see if there’re any other markings on it. Nothing. Just a standard plastic—

A car door slams in the distance. I turn at the noise. But I can’t see anything except the moldy interior walls of the trash bin. Time to get out. Holding the nametag in one hand and tossing the jacket over my shoulder, I grip the top ledge of the Dumpster with my long, spindly fingers. A slight jump gives me enough momentum to boost myself up. My feet scratch and slide against the wall, fighting for traction. With one final thrust, I press my stomach against the top ledge and seesaw into place. Tires screech in the distance, but I’m in no position to look up. Like an army recruit fighting to get over the obstacle course wall, I twist myself over the top and plummet feetfirst toward the ground, still facing the Dumpster. As my shoes collide with the cement, I hear an engine revving behind me. Dozens of stones clink across the concrete. It’s right there. Back toward the driveway. Tires once again screech, and I spin at the sound. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the car’s grille coming my way. Straight at me.

The black Toyota plows into my legs and smashes me into the Dumpster. My face flies forward, slamming into the hood of the car. There’s an unearthly crackle like a dry log in a fireplace. My legs shatter. Oh, God. I scream out in pain. Bone turns to dust, and as the car shoves the Dumpster backward, metal grinds against metal, with me in between. My legs… m-my pelvis is on fire. I think it’s snapped in two. The pain is scorching… I take that back. The pain fades. It all goes numb. Time freezes in a warped slow motion. My body’s in shock.

“What’s wrong wit you?!” a male voice shouts from within the car.

The blood pours from my mouth, raining across the hood of the Toyota. Please, God. Don’t let me pass out… In my left eye, I see nothing but bright red. It takes everything I have to pick my head up and look through the windshield. There’s only one person inside… holding on to the steering wheel. The page who took our money.

“All you hadda do was sit there!” he screams, pounding the wheel with his fist. He yells something else, but it’s muffled… all garbled… like someone shouting when you’re underwater. I try to wipe the blood from my mouth, but my arm’s limp at my side. I stare through the windshield at the page, unsure how long he’s been yelling. Around me, everything goes silent. All I hear is my own broken panting—a wet wheeze crawling on its knees through my throat. I try to tell myself that as long as I’m breathing, I’ll be okay, right? But like my dad told me on our first camping trip, every animal knows when it’s about to die.

Through the windshield, the page throws the car into reverse. The Toyota shifts below my chest. My long fingers scratch wildly for the windshield wipers… the grate on the hood… anything to grab on to. I don’t have a chance. He floors it, and the car flies backward, sending me sliding off the hood. As my back crashes against the Dumpster, the car’s wheels spin, kicking a tornado of rocks and dust in my eyes and mouth. I try to stand but can’t feel anything. My legs collapse beneath me and my whole body crumples in the dirt.

Straight ahead, the car bucks to a stop. But he doesn’t leave. I don’t understand. With my one good eye, I stare through the windshield as the page shakes his head angrily. There’s a soft mechanical clunk. He shifts it back into drive. Oh, God. He punches the gas, and the engine howls. Tires gnaw through the gravel. And the rusted grille of the black Toyota comes galloping straight at me. I beg for him to stop, but nothing comes out. My body shakes, convulsing against the base of the Dumpster. The car thunders forward. S-Sorry I got you into this, Harris… Mouthing a silent prayer, I shut my eyes tight and try to picture the Merced River in Yosemite.

7

WHATTYA MEAN, DEAD? How can he be dead?”

“That’s what happens when you stop breathing.”

“I know what it means, asshole!”

“Then don’t ask a stupid question.”

Sinking down in his seat, the smartly dressed man felt a sharp contraction around his lungs. “You said no one would get hurt,” he stuttered, anxiously unbending a paperclip as he cradled the phone to his chin. “Those were your words…”

“Don’t blame me,” Martin Janos insisted on the other line. “He followed our guy outside the Capitol. At that point, the kid panicked.”

“That didn’t mean he had to kill him!”

“Really?” Janos asked. “So you’d rather Matthew made his way to your office?”

Twisting the paperclip around his finger, the man didn’t answer.

“Exactly,” Janos said.

“Does Harris know?” the man asked.

“I just got the call myself—I’m on my way down there right now.”

“What about the bet?”

“Matthew already slipped it in the bill—last smart thing the guy ever did.”

“Don’t make fun of him, Janos.”

“Oh, now you’re having regrets?”

Once again the man was silent. But deep within his chest, he knew he’d be regretting this one for the rest of his life.

8

STANDING IN THE gravel driveway, Janos stared down at Matthew Mercer’s broken body, which sagged lifelessly against the Dumpster. More than anything else, Janos couldn’t help but notice the awkward bend in Matthew’s thighs. And the way his right hand was still stretching upward, reaching for something it would never grasp. Janos shook his head at the mess. So stupid and violent. There were better ways than this.

As the afternoon sun beat down on the bald spot in his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, Janos stuffed his hands in the pockets of his blue and yellow FBI windbreaker. A few years back, the Justice Department announced that nearly 450 of the FBI’s own pistols, revolvers, and assault rifles were officially missing. Whoever stole the guns clearly thought they were valuable, Janos thought. But in his mind, not nearly as valuable as a single windbreaker, nabbed as the crowd celebrated a homerun during an Orioles game. Even the Capitol Police won’t stop a friendly neighborhood FBI agent.

“Where you been?” a voice shouted behind him.

Slowly glancing over his shoulder, Janos had no problem spotting the rusty black Toyota. With the incredibly dented grille. As the car pulled up to the curb, Janos crossed around to the driver’s side and leaned into the window, which was missing its side mirror. Flicking his tongue against his top teeth, he didn’t say a word.

“Don’t look at me like that,” the young black man said, shifting awkwardly in his seat. The confidence he’d worn as a page was gone.

“Let me ask you a question, Toolie—do you consider yourself a smart person?”

Travonn “Toolie” Williams nodded hesitantly. “Y-Yeah… I guess so.”

“That’s why we hired you, isn’t it? To be smart? To look the part?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I mean, why else hire a nineteen-year-old?”

Toolie shrugged his shoulders, unsure how to answer. He didn’t like Janos. Especially when he had that look.

Janos stared through the inside of the car and out the passenger-side window at Matthew. Then he looked back at Toolie.

“Y-You didn’t tell me he’d follow…” Toolie began. “I didn’t know what the hell to—!”

“Did you get the money?” Janos interrupted.

Toolie quickly reached over to the passenger seat and grabbed the envelope with the two cashier’s checks. His arm was shaking as he handed it over.

“It’s all there, just like you wanted. I even avoided the office in case someone followed.”

“That sure worked out great,” Janos said. “Now where’s your jacket?”

Toolie reached into the backseat and handed over the navy suit jacket. Janos noticed it was soaked with blood, but decided not to ask. The damage was done.

“Anything else I should know about?” Janos asked. Toolie shook his head.

Janos nodded slightly, then patted Toolie on the shoulder. Things were looking up. Reading the positive reaction, Toolie sat up in his seat and finally took a breath. Janos reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a small black box that looked like a thick calculator. “Ever seen one of these?” Janos asked.

“Naw, whut is it?”

On the side of the box, Janos flipped a switch, and a slight electrical hum punctured the air, like a radio being turned on. Next to the switch, he turned a dial, and two half-inch needles clicked into place on the base of the device. They looked like tiny antennas. Just enough to pierce through clothing, Janos thought.

Gripping the black box like a walkie-talkie, Janos cocked his arm backward—and in one sharp movement, pounded the device against the center of Toolie’s chest.

“Ow!” Toolie yelled as the tips of the two needles bit into his skin. With a hard shove, he pushed Janos and the device away from his chest. “What the hell’re you doin’, asshole?”

Janos looked down at the black box and turned the On switch to Off. “You’ll see…”

To his own surprise, Toolie let out a loud, involuntary grunt.

Seeing the smile on Janos’s face, Toolie looked down at his own chest. Ignoring the buttons, he ripped his shirt open, then stretched the collar of his undershirt down until he could see his own bare chest. There were no marks. Not even a pinprick.

That’s why Janos liked it. Completely untraceable. Outside the car, Janos glanced down at his watch. Thirteen seconds was the minimum. But fifteen was average.

“What’s going on?!” Toolie screamed.

“Your heart’s trying to beat 3,600 times a minute,” Janos explained.

As Toolie grabbed at the left side of his chest, Janos cocked his head sideways. They always grabbed the left side, even though the heart’s not there. Everyone gets that wrong, he thought. That’s just where we feel it beating. Indeed, as Janos knew all too well, the heart was actually in the direct center.

“I’ll kill you!” Toolie exploded. “I’ll kill you, muthaf—”

Toolie’s mouth drooped open, and his entire body ragdolled against the steering wheel like a puppet when you remove the hand.

Fifteen seconds on the nose, Janos thought, admiring his homemade device. Just amazing. Once you know it takes AC power to fibrillate the heart, all you need are eight double-A batteries and a cheap converter from Radio Shack. With the flip of a switch, you convert 12 volts DC to 120 volts AC. Add two needles that are spread far enough to be on either side of the heart, and… sizzle… instant electrocution. The last thing any coroner will check for. And even if they do, as long as you’re in and out fast enough to avoid electrical burns, there’s nothing there to find.

Janos pulled two rubber gloves from his pants pocket, slid them on, and carefully scanned the area. Fences… other cars… Dumpster… strip club. All clear. At least Toolie picked the right neighborhood. Still, it was always better to disappear as fast as possible. Opening the driver’s-side door, Janos grabbed the back of Toolie’s head in a tight fist and, with a hard shove, smashed Toolie’s face against the steering wheel. Then he pulled back and did it again. And again—until Toolie’s nose split open and the blood started flowing.

Letting Toolie’s head slump back against the seat, Janos reached for the steering wheel and cranked it slightly to the right. He leaned into the car, resting an elbow on Toolie’s shoulder and staring out the windshield—just to make sure he was perfectly lined up.

Back by the Dumpster, he found a broken cinder block, which he lugged back to the car. More than enough weight. Shifting the Toyota into neutral, he reached below the dash and pressed the cinder block against the gas. The engine growled to life, revving out of control. Janos let it build for a few seconds. Without the speed, it wouldn’t look right. Almost there, he told himself… The car was shaking, practically knocking Toolie over. Perfect, Janos thought. With a fast slap, he threw the car into drive, jumped backward, and let his aim do the rest. The tires spun against the pavement, and the car took off like a slingshot. Up the curb… off the road… and right into a telephone pole.

Barely pausing to watch the result, Janos headed back to the Dumpster and knelt next to Matthew’s already pale body. From his own wallet, Janos took five hundred dollars, rolled it into a small wad, then stuffed it in Matthew’s front pocket. That’ll explain what he’s doing in the neighborhood. White boys in suits only come down here for drugs. As long as the money’s on him, the cops’ll know it wasn’t a jump-and-run. And with the car bow-tied around the telephone pole, the rest of the picture blooms into place. Kid gets hit on the sidewalk. Driver panics and, as he flees, does just as bad a job on himself. No one to hunt for. No one to investigate. Just another hit-and-run.

Flipping open his cell phone, Janos dialed a number and waited for his boss to pick up. No question, that was the worst part of the job. Reporting in. But that’s what happens when you work for someone else.

“All clean,” Janos said as he bent down to pull the cinder block out of the car.

“So where you off to now?”

Wiping his hands, Janos looked down at the room number next to Harris’s name. “Russell Building. Room 427.”

9

Harris

ALL SET?”

“Harris, you sure this is right?” Senator Stevens asks me.

“Positive,” I reply, checking the call sheet myself. “Edward—not Ed—Gursten… wife is Catherine. From River Hills. Son is named Dondi.”

“Dondi?”

“Dondi,” I repeat. “You met Edward flying first class last year.”

“And is he a Proud American?”

Proud American is the Senator’s code word for a donor who raises over ten grand.

“Extremely proud,” I say. “You ready?”

Stevens nods.

I dial the final number and grab the receiver. If I were a novice, I’d say, Hi, Mr. Gursten, I’m Harris Sandler… Senator Stevens’s chief of staff. I have the Senator here for you… Instead, I hand the phone to the Senator just as Gursten picks up. It’s perfectly timed and a beautiful touch. The donor thinks the Senator himself called, instantly making them feel like old buddies.

As Stevens introduces himself, I toss a piece of hamachi in my mouth. Sushi and solicitations—typical Stevens lunch.

“So, Ed…” Stevens sings as I shake my head. “Where’ve you been my last dozen flights? You back in the cheap seats?” His pitch is off, but it still works like a dream. Personal calls from a Senator always hit home. And by home, I mean in the wallet.

“You were here? In D.C.?” Stevens asks. “Next time you’re around, you should give me a call and we can try to grab lunch…”

Translation: We don’t have a chance of grabbing lunch. If you’re lucky, we’ll get five minutes together. But if you don’t raise your donation this year, you may only get a senior staffer and some gallery passes.

“… we’ll get you into the Capitol—make sure you don’t have to wait on any of those lines…”

My staff will give you an intern who’ll take you on exactly the same tour of the Capitol that you’d get on the public tour, but you’ll feel far more important this way…

“I mean, we have to take care of our friends, don’t we?” I mean, how’s about helping us out with some coin, fat man?

Stevens hangs up the phone with a verbal pledge that “Ed” will raise fifteen grand. I pass the Senator some yellowtail and dial the next number.

Years ago, political money came from powerful WASPs you met at a dinner party in a tastefully decorated second home. Today, it comes from a well-vetted call sheet in a fluorescent-lit room that sits directly atop a sushi restaurant on Massachusetts Avenue. The office has three desks, two computers, and ten phone lines. Old money versus new marketing. It’s not even close. There’s not a Congressman on the Hill who doesn’t make these calls. Some do three hours a day; others do three a week. Stevens is the former. He likes his job. And the perks. And he’s not about to lose them. It’s the first rule of politics: You can do anything you want, but if you don’t raise the cash, you won’t be doing it for long.

“Who’s next?” Stevens asks.

“Virginia Rae Morrison. You know her from Green Bay.”

“We went to school together?”

“She was a neighbor. When you were nine,” I explain, reading from the sheet. When it comes to fundraising, federal law says you can’t make calls from your government office or a government phone—which is why every day, this close to elections, half of Congress leaves the Capitol to make calls from somewhere else. The average Member goes three blocks away to the phone rooms in Republican and Democratic campaign headquarters. Smarter Members hire a fundraising consultant to help build a personal database of reliable supporters and potential donors. And a dozen or so mad-genius Members kiss the ring and hire Len Logan, a fundraising expert so organized, the “Comments” sections of his call sheets have details like: “She just finished treatment for breast cancer.”

“Yup, yup—I got her,” Stevens says as the phone rings in my ear.

“Hello…” a female voice answers.

The Senator slides me the yellowtail; I slide him the receiver. We’ve got it running smoother than a ballet.

“Hey, there, Virginia, how’s my favorite fighter?”

I nod, impressed. Don’t reintroduce yourself if you’re supposed to be old friends. As Stevens takes a two-minute gallop down memory lane, one of my two cell phones vibrates in my pocket. The one in my right pocket is paid for by the Senator’s office. The one in my left is paid by me. Public and private. According to Matthew, in my life, there’s no distinction. What he doesn’t understand is, if you love your job like I do, there shouldn’t be.

Checking to see that Stevens is still busy, I reach for my left pocket and check the tiny screen on my phone. Caller ID blocked. That’s everyone I know.

“Harris,” I answer.

“Harris, it’s Cheese,” my assistant says, his voice shaking. I already don’t like the tone. “I-I don’t know how to… It’s Matthew… he…”

“Matthew what?”

“He got hit by a car,” Cheese says. “He’s dead. Matthew’s dead.”

Every muscle in my body goes limp, and it feels as if my head’s floating away from my shoulders. “What?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard.”

“From who? Who said it?” I ask, going for the source. “Joel Westman, who got it from his cousin in the Capitol Police. Apparently, someone in Carlin’s office forgot their parking pass and had to park out by stripper-land. On their way back, they saw the bodies…”

“There was more than one?”

“Apparently, the scumbag who hit him took off in a panic. Smacked into a pole and died instantly.”

Shooting to my feet, I run my hand through my hair. “Why didn’t… I can’t believe this… When’d it happen?”

“No idea,” Cheese stutters. “I just… I just got the call. Harris, they said Matthew might’ve been trying to buy drugs.”

“Drugs? Not a chance…”

The Senator looks my way, wondering what’s wrong. Pretending not to notice, I do the one thing you never do to a Senator. I turn my back to him. I don’t care. This is Matthew… my friend…

“Everything alright?” the Senator calls out as I stumble for the doorknob.

Without answering, I throw the door open and rush from the room. Straight into the stairwell.

“The weird part is, some guy from the FBI was here looking for you,” Cheese adds.

The walls of the stairway close in from every side. I tear at my tie, unable to breathe.

“Excuse me?”

“Said he had a few questions,” Cheese explains. “Wanted to talk to you as soon as possible.”

My sweat-soaked palm slides against the handrail, and my footing gives way. I slide down the top few stairs. A well-placed grasp prevents the fall.

“Harris, you there?” Cheese asks.

Jumping down the last three steps, I shove my way outside, gasping for fresh air. It doesn’t help. Not when my friend’s dead. My eyes well up with tears, and the words ricochet through my skull. My friend’s dead. I can’t believe he’s—

“Harris, talk to me…” Cheese adds.

I tighten my jaw and try to bury the tears in my throat. It doesn’t work. Checking the street, I scout for a cab. Nothing’s in sight. Without even thinking, I start jogging up the block. Better to get information. Back by Union Station, the cab line’s too long. No time to waste.

“Harris…” Cheese asks for the third time.

“Just tell me where it happened.”

“Listen, don’t do anything rash—”

“Where’d the damn accident happen?!”

“D-Down on New Jersey. By the strip club.”

“Cheese, listen to me. Don’t tell anyone what happened. This isn’t office gossip—it’s a friend. Understand?”

Before he can answer, I shut my phone, turn the corner, and pick up the pace. My jog accelerates into a run, which accelerates into a full-on sprint. My tie flaps over my shoulder, waving in the wind. A noose around my neck. I should be so lucky.

Rushing toward the overpass on New Jersey Avenue, I see flashing lights spinning in the distance. But the moment I realize they’re yellow instead of red, I know I’m too late. Up by the gravel driveway, the driver’s-side door of a flatbed tow truck slams shut, and the engine coughs itself awake. On the back of the flatbed is a black Toyota with a smashed-in front end. The driver hits the gas, and the tow truck rumbles deeper into southeast D.C.

“Wait!” I shout, chasing it up the block. “Please, wait!” I don’t have a chance. Even I’m not that fast. But on the back of the truck, the front of the Toyota’s still facing me. I keep running full-speed, staring hard at the grille, which taunts me with its jack-o’-lantern grin. It’s a twisted smile, with a deep indentation on the driver’s side. Like it hit something. Then I catch the dark smudge toward the bottom of the grille. Not just something. Someone.

Matthew…

“Wait… waaaait!” I scream until my throat begins to burn. It still doesn’t bury the pain. Nothing does. It’s like a corkscrew in my chest, tightening with every second that passes. I’m still running as fast as I can, looking around at the world, searching for something… anything that’ll make sense. It never does. My toes curl. My feet sting. And the corkscrew continues to tighten.

The tow truck kicks back a black cloud of exhaust and fades up the block. I run out of gas just beyond the gravel driveway—where the truck picked up the Toyota.

Two weeks ago, a seventeen-year-old Asian delivery boy was the victim of a hit-and-run a few blocks from my house. The cops kept police tape around the scene for almost six hours so they could get paint samples from the other vehicles the car collided with. Bent over and covered in sweat, I scan up and down the block. There’s not a strand of police tape in sight. Whoever worked this scene… whoever cleaned it up… they found all the answers they needed right here. No suspects. No loose ends. Nothing to worry about.

Lost in a haze, I kick a loose pebble from the street. It skips across the pavement and clinks against the sidewalk. Just shy of the telephone pole. There’s some glass from the headlights scattered at the base and some torn-up grass patches from where they dragged the car out. Otherwise, the pole’s untouched. I crane my neck up. Maybe off by ten degrees.

Tracing it backward, it’s not hard to follow. Tire tracks in the gravel show me where the Toyota’s wheels started to spin. From there, the trail goes straight up the driveway. Dead-ending at the Dumpster.

I kick another pebble through the gravel, but as it hits the Dumpster, the metal sound is different from before. Hollow. Completely empty.

There’s a dent in the base of the Dumpster, and a dark puddle right below it. I tell myself not to look, but… I have to. Lowering my chin, I squint with a hesitant peek. I expect it to be red, like some bad slasher sequel. It’s not. It’s black. Just a shallow black stain. All that remains.

My stomach cartwheels, and a snakebite of acid slithers up my throat. I clench my teeth to fight the vomit. My head again floats from my shoulders, and I stagger backward, grasping for balance. It doesn’t come. Crashing on my ass, I slam against the gravel driveway, my hands slicing across the rocks. I swear, I can’t move. I roll on my side, but all it does is bring me back to the dent in the Dumpster. And the black stain. And the crush of rocks surrounding it. I’m not sure why I came. I thought it’d make me feel better. It doesn’t. With my cheek against the ground, I’ve got an ant’s-eye view of the thin crawl space below the Dumpster. If I were small enough, I’d hide underneath, tucked behind the gum wrappers, empty beer bottles, and… and the one thing that’s clearly out of place… It’s really buried back there—I only see it when the sun hits it just right…

Cocking my head sideways, I slide my arm under the Dumpster and pull out the bright blue plastic nametag with the white writing:

Senate Page

Viv Parker

My mouth sags open. My fingers go numb. There’s some dirt on the lettering, but it brushes right off. The nametag shines—it hasn’t been out here long. I look back at the dent and the dark stain. Maybe just a few hours.

Oh, damn.

There was only one reason for Matthew to interact with a Senate page. Today was the day. Our stupid fucking bet… If they were both out here, maybe someone—

My phone rings in my pocket, and I jerk backward from the vibration against my leg.

“Harris,” I answer, flipping the phone open.

“Harris, it’s Barry—where are you?”

I look around the empty lot, wondering the same thing myself. Barry may be blind, but he’s not stupid. If he’s calling me here, he…

“Just heard about Matthew,” Barry says. “I can’t believe it. I’m… I’m so sorry.”

“Who told you?”

“Cheese. Why?”

I shut my eyes and curse my assistant.

“Harris, where are you?” Barry adds.

It’s the second time he’s asked that question. For that reason alone, he’s not getting an answer.

Climbing to my feet, I brush the dust from my pants. My head’s still spinning. I can’t do this now… but… I have to. I need to find out who else knows. “Barry, have you told anyone else about this?”

“No one. Almost no one. Why?”

He knows me too well. “Nothing,” I tell him. “What about Matthew’s office mates—they heard yet?”

“Actually, that’s who I just hung up with. I called to pass the word, but Dinah… Trish from the Senate… they already knew. Somehow, they got the news first.”

I look down at the page’s nametag in the palm of my hand. In all the time we were playing the game, it was never important who we were betting against. That was the fun of it. But right now, I’ve got a bad feeling it’s the only thing that matters.

“Barry, I gotta go.”

I press the End button and dial a new number. But before I can finish, there’s a soft crunch of gravel behind the Dumpster. I race around to the back of it, but no one’s there.

Keep it together, I tell myself.

I take a deep breath and let it wash down to my abdomen. Just like my dad used to do when the bills came. My finger once again dives for the keypad. Time to go to the source. And when it comes to the game, the only source I know is the person who brought me in.

“Bud Pasternak’s office—how can I help you?” a female voice answers. Barry’s boss. My mentor.

“Melinda, it’s me. Is he in?”

“Sorry, Harris. Conference call.”

“Can you get him out?”

“Not this one.”

“C’mon, Melinda…”

“Don’t even try with the charm, pumpkin. He’s pitching a big client.”

“How big?”

“Rhymes with Bicrosoft.”

Behind me, there’s another crunch of gravel. I spin around to follow the sound. Further up the driveway, behind a scrubby bunch of bushes.

That’s it. I’m gone.

“Wanna leave a message?” Melinda asks.

Not about this. Matthew… the FBI… It’s like a tidal wave, arched above my head, ready to crash down. “Tell him I’m coming by.”

“Harris, you’re not interrupting this meeting…”

“Wouldn’t even think it,” I say as I shut the phone. I’m already jogging back toward the overpass. It’s only a few blocks to First Street. Home of Pasternak & Associates.

10

NICE TO SEE YOU,” Janos said, blowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing a quick wave to the female security guard.

“Can I have you sign in for me?” the guard asked, tapping her finger on the three-ring binder that was open on her desk.

Janos stopped midstep and slowly turned back to the guard. This wasn’t the time to make a scene. Better to play it quiet.

“Absolutely,” he replied as he approached the desk. With a flick of his pen, he scribbled the name Matthew Mercer onto the sign-in sheet.

The guard stared up at the letters FBI on Janos’s blue and yellow windbreaker. To seal the deal, Janos quickly flashed a shined-up sheriff’s badge he got in an old Army-Navy store. When Janos made eye contact, the guard looked away.

“Nice day outside, huh?” the guard asked, staring out through the lobby’s enormous plate-glass window.

“Absolutely,” Janos repeated as he headed for the elevators. “Pretty as a peach.”

11

NICE TO SEE YOU, BARB,” I say, plowing through the lobby of Pasternak & Associates and throwing an air kiss to the security guard.

She grabs the kiss and tosses it aside. Always the same joke. “How’s Stevens?” she asks.

“Old and rich. How’s… how’s your hubby?”

“You forgot his name, didn’t you?”

“Sorry,” I stutter. “Just one of those afternoons.”

“Everybody has ’em, sweets.” It doesn’t make me feel any better. “You here to see Barry?”

I nod as the elevator dings. Barry’s on the third floor. Pasternak’s on the fourth. Stepping inside, I hit the button marked 4. The moment the doors close, I slump against the back wall. My smile’s gone; my shoulders sag. In my pocket, I fiddle with the page’s nametag. The elevator rattles upward. All the way to the top.

With a ping, the doors slide open on the fourth floor, and I squeeze outside into the modern hallway with its recessed lighting. There’s a receptionist on my right. I go left. Pasternak’s assistant’ll never buzz me through. There’s no choice but to go around. The hallway ends at a frosted-glass door with a numeric keypad. I’ve seen Barry enter it a hundred times. I punch in the code, the lock clicks, and I shove my way inside. Just another lobbyist making the rounds.

Decorated like a law firm but with a bit more attitude, the halls of Pasternak & Associates are covered with stylish black-and-white photos of the American flag waving over the Capitol, the White House, and every other monument in the city—anything to show patriotism. The message to potential clients is clear: Pasternak lobbyists embrace the system—and work within it. The ultimate inside job.

Wasting no time, I avoid all offices and make a sharp right toward the back, past the kitchenette. If I’m lucky, Pasternak will still be in the conference room, away from his—

“Harris?” a voice calls out behind me.

I spin back and paint on a fake grin. To my surprise, I don’t recognize the face.

“Harris Sandler, right?” he asks again, clearly surprised. His voice creaks like a loose floorboard, and his green hangdog eyes have a silent darkness to them. They lock on to me like a bear trap. Still, the only thing I’m concerned with is the blue and yellow FBI windbreaker he’s wearing.

“Can I talk to you a moment?” the man asks as he points me back toward the conference room. “I promise… it’ll only take a second.”

12

DO I KNOW YOU?” I ask, searching for info.

The man in the FBI windbreaker puts on his own fake smile and rubs his hand along his buzzed salt-and-pepper hair. I know that move. Stevens does it when he meets constituents. A poor attempt to warm things up. “Harris, maybe we should find a place to talk.”

“I-I’m supposed to see Pasternak.”

“I know. Sounds like he’s been a good friend to you.” His body language switches in the most imperceptible way. He’s smiling, but his chin pitches toward me. I make my living in politics. Most people wouldn’t see it. I do.

“Now, do you want to have this discussion in the conference room, or would you rather discuss it in front of the whole firm?” he asks. Ramming his point home, he nods a quick hello to a middle-aged redhead who steps into the kitchenette for some coffee. Talking without saying. Whoever this guy is, he’d be a great Congressman.

“If this is about Matthew…”

“It’s about more than Matthew,” the man interrupts. “What surprises me is Pasternak trying to keep your name out of it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, Harris—even a nongambling man would bet against that.”

The reference is as subtle as lighting my chest on fire. He doesn’t just know about Matthew. He knows about the game. And he wants me to know it.

I stare at him coldly. “Pasternak’s in the conference room?”

“Right this way,” he says, motioning up the hallway like a fine maître d’. “After you…”

I lead the way. He falls in right behind me.

“Sounds like you two have known each other a long time,” he says.

“Me and Pasternak, or me and Matthew?”

“Both,” he says as he straightens a black-and-white photo of the Supreme Court that’s hanging in the hall. He’s asking questions, but he doesn’t care about the answers.

I glance over my shoulder and give him a quick once-over. Windbreaker… gray slacks… and chocolate brown calfskin shoes. The pewter logo says they’re Ferragamo. I turn back toward the hallway. Nice shoes for government pay.

“Right in here,” he says, pointing to the door on my right. Like the one by the elevators, it’s frosted glass, which only shows me the blurry outline of Pasternak as he sits in his favorite black leather chair at the center of the long conference table. It’s one of Pasternak’s first lessons: better to be at the center than the head of the table—if you want something done, you need to be close to all the players.

I grab the doorknob and give it a twist. I’m not surprised Pasternak picked this conference room—it’s the biggest one in the firm—but as the door swings open, I am surprised to find that the lights are off. I didn’t notice it at first. Except for the fading sunlight from the large bay windows, Pasternak’s sitting in the dark.

The door slams behind me, followed by a slight electrical hum. Like a transistor radio being turned on. I spin around just in time to see the man with the hangdog eyes lunging at me. In his hand is a small box that looks like a black brick. I lean back at the last second and raise my arm as a shield. The box slams into my forearm and burns with a sharp bite. Son of a bitch. Did he just stab me?

He expects me to pull away. Instead, I keep the box in my arm and tug him even closer. As he tumbles toward me off balance, I pivot off my back leg and punch him square in his eye. His head snaps back, and he stumbles, crashing into the closed frosted-glass door. The black box flies from his hand and shatters on the floor, scattering batteries along the carpet. The man doesn’t go down as easy. Patting his eye with his fingertips, he looks up at me with an admiring grin, almost like he’s enjoying himself. You don’t get a face like that without taking a few punches, and he’s clearly taken better ones than mine. He licks the corner of his mouth and sends me the message. If I plan on doing any damage, I have to do better than that.

“Who taught you how to punch?” his voice creaks as he scoops up the pieces of the black box and slides them in his pocket. “Your dad or your uncle?”

He’s trying to show off some knowledge… get me emotional. He doesn’t have a chance. I’ve spent over a dozen years on Capitol Hill. When it comes to mental boxing, I’ve taken on a Congressful of Muhammad Alis. But that doesn’t mean I’m gonna risk it all in a fistfight.

He climbs to his feet, and I look around for help. “Buddy!” I call out to Pasternak. He doesn’t move. Back by the conference table… he’s leaning back in his chair. One arm dangles over the armrest. His eyes are wide open. The world blurs as the tears swell in my eyes. I race toward him, then quickly stop short, raising my hands in the air. Don’t touch the body.

“Always thinking, aren’t you?” Hangdog calls out. Behind me, I hear the hiss of his blue and yellow windbreaker as he slowly moves toward me. FBI, my ass. I turn to face him, and he tosses out another cocky grin, convinced he’s blocking my only way out. I spin back toward the bay window and the patio behind it. The patio. And the door that leads to it.

I dart like a jackrabbit for the glass door at the back of the room. Like before, there’s a numeric keypad. Now Hangdog’s moving. My hands are shaking as they tap out Barry’s code. “C’mon…” I beg, waiting for the magnetic click. The man races around the conference table, ten steps behind me. The lock pops. I shove the door open, then spin around, trying to slam it shut. If I lock him in—

He jams his hand into the doorway just as it’s about to close. There’s a sharp crunch. He grits his teeth at the pain but doesn’t let go. I slam the door tighter. He glares at me through the glass, his green eyes darker than ever. He still doesn’t let go. His knuckles turn purple, he’s squeezing the doorframe so tight. He wedges his shoe in the door and starts to push it open. This isn’t a stalemate I can win.

I search over my shoulder at the rest of the patio, which is filled with teak Adirondack chairs and matching footrests. During the spring, the patio’s used mainly for high-end congressional fund-raisers. Why rent out a room when you can keep it in-house? On my right and left, wood lattices overrun with ivy create false walls for the rooftop. Straight ahead is a stunning view of the Capitol dome—and more important, the other four-story building that sits directly next door. The only thing between the buildings is the seven-foot alley that separates them.

The man winds up for a final burst. As his shoulder pounds into the door, I step away and let it swing wide. He falls to the floor, and I run straight for the edge of the roof.

“You’ll never make it!” he calls out.

Again with the mental game. I don’t listen. I don’t think. I just run. Straight for the edge. I tell myself not to look at the gap, but as I barrel toward it, I don’t see anything else. Four stories up. Seven feet wide… maybe six if I’m lucky… Please let it be six.

Staring dead ahead and sprinting across the terra-cotta pavers, I clench my teeth, step up on the concrete parapet, and launch myself into the air. When I first met Matthew in college, he told me he was tall enough to hurdle the hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. Let’s hope the same is true for me.

As I clear the six-foot canyon, I hit the roof of the adjacent building on the heels of my feet and skid forward until I fall back on my ass-bone. A hot lightning bolt of electricity shoots up my spine. Unlike the patio, the roof over here is tar—it burns as I hit. The impact alone kicks a miniwhirlwind of rooftop dust into my lungs, but there’s no time to stop. I look back across to the other building. Hangdog is racing at me, about to match my jump.

Scrambling to my feet, I look around for a doorway or stairwell. Nothing in sight. On the opposite ledge, the metal tendrils of a fire escape creep over the parapet like the legs of a spider. Making a mad dash for it, I hop over the ledge, slide down the rusted ladder, and collide with a clang as I hit the top landing of the fire escape. Holding the railing and circling downward, I leap down the stairs half a flight at a time. By the time I’m on the second floor, I hear a loud scratch and feel the whole fire escape vibrate. Up above, the man hits the top landing. He glares down through the grating. I’ve got a three-floor head start.

With a kick, I unhinge the metal ladder, sending it sliding down toward the sidewalk in the alley. Following right behind it, I shuffle down, my shoes smacking against the concrete. On my left is a dead end. On my right, across the street, is Bullfeathers, one of Capitol Hill’s oldest bars. They should be in the heart of happy hour—the perfect time to get lost in a crowd.

As I race into the street, a horn screams, and a silver Lexus screeches to a stop, almost plowing into me. At Bullfeathers, I spot Dan Dutko—easily the town’s nicest lobbyist—holding open the door for his entire party.

“Hey, Harris, saw your boss on TV—you’re cleaning him up real nice,” he calls out with a laugh.

I force a strained grin and elbow my way in front of the group, almost knocking over a woman with dark hair.

“Can I help you?” the hostess asks as I stumble inside. “Where’re the bathrooms?” I blurt. “It’s an emergency.”

“B-Back and to the right,” she says. I’m clearly creeping her out.

Without slowing down, I rush past the bar, toward the back. But I never make a right toward the bathrooms. Instead, I run straight through the swinging doors of the kitchen, squeeze past the chef at the fryer, duck past a waiter balancing a serving tray full of hamburgers, and leap up the few steps in the very back. With a shove, I ram into the back door and burst outside into the restaurant’s back alley. I’ve eaten here once a week for over a decade. I know where the bathrooms are. But if I’m lucky, when the man bursts into the restaurant and asks the hostess where I went, she’ll send him back and to the right. Stuck in the rest rooms.

I jog backward up the alley, my gaze locked on Bullfeathers’s back door. Dead silent. Even he’s not good enough t—

The door swings open, and the man bounds outside. We both freeze. Shaking his head at my predictability, he readjusts his windbreaker. Listening carefully, I notice the jingling of keys on my left. Diagonally behind me, a twenty-year-old kid with a pair of headphones is opening the back door to his apartment building.

Hangdog leaps toward me. I leap toward Headphones. “ ’Scuse me, kid—sorry,” I say, cutting in front of him. As I slide into the building, I grab his keys from the lock and take them inside with me.

“Jackass!” the kid calls out.

Nodding another apology, I slam the thick metal door shut. He’s outside with Hangdog. I’m alone in the building. I already hear him pounding his shoulder against the door. Like before, this isn’t gonna last.

Behind me, the gray industrial stairwell can take me up or down. From the view at the banister, up leads to the main lobby and the rest of the building. Down goes down one flight and dead-ends at a bike rack. Logic says to go up. It’s the clear way out. More important, every instinct in my gut tells me to go up. Which is exactly why I go down. Screw logic. Whoever this psychopath is, he’s been in my head long enough.

Descending toward the dead end, I find two empty mop buckets and seven bikes, one with training wheels and rainbow streamers on the handlebars. I’m not MacGyver. Nothing I can use as a weapon. Hopping over the metal grating of the bike rack, I curl down into a tight ball and glance up toward the banister. From this angle, I’m as hidden as I get.

Up above, the door crashes into the concrete wall, and he enters the stairwell.

He’s at the foot of the stairs, making his decision. No time to check both—for both of us, every second counts.

I hold my breath and shut my eyes. His suede shoes tickle the concrete as he takes a slight step forward. There’s a swish from his windbreaker. His fingernail taps quietly against the banister. He’s peering over the edge.

Two seconds later, he races for the stairs… but with each step, the sound gets fainter. In the distance, another metal door slams into a wall. Then silence. He’s gone.

But as I finally raise my head and take a breath, I quickly realize my problems are just beginning.

I try to stand up, but vertigo hits fast. I can barely keep my balance—adrenaline has long since disappeared. As I sink back into the corner, my arms sag like rubber bands at my side. Like Pasternak. And Matthew.

God…

Again I shut my eyes. Again they both stare back at me. They’re all I see. Matthew’s soft smile and gawky stride… the way Pasternak always cracked his middle knuckle…

Curled into a ball, I can’t even look up. I’m right where I deserve to be. Matthew always put me up on a pedestal. So did Pasternak. But I was never that different. Or any less afraid. I was just more skilled at hiding it.

I turn away toward the training-wheel bike, but all it does is remind me of Pasternak’s two-year-old son… his wife, Carol… Matthew’s parents… his brothers… their lives… all ruined…

I lick my upper lip, and the taste of salt stings my tongue. It’s the first time I notice the tears running down my face.

It was a game. Just a stupid game. But like any other game, all it took was a single dumb move to stop play and remind everyone how easy it is for people to get hurt. Whatever Matthew saw… whatever he did… the man chasing me is clearly trying to keep it quiet. At any cost. He’s not a novice, either. I think back to how he left Matthew. And Pasternak… That’s why he scooped up the pieces of the black box. When they find his body, there’s no reason for anyone to cock an eyebrow. People die at their desks every day.

I shake my head at my new reality. That creepy nut… the way he set it all up… and that black box, whatever the hell it was. He may not be FBI, but the guy’s clearly a professional. And while I’m not sure if he’s shutting down the entire game or just our branch, it doesn’t take a genius to spot the trend. Pasternak brought me in, and I brought in Matthew. Two down, one to go. And I’m wearing the bull’s-eye in the middle.

I curl my knees to my chest and pray it’s all a dream. It’s not. My friends are dead. And I’m next.

How the hell did this happen? I look around and catch my reflection in the chrome handlebars of the kid’s bicycle. It’s like staring into a spoon. The whole world’s warped. I can’t get out of this myself—not without some help.

Racing up the stairs and out the back door, I run five blocks without stopping. Still not sure it’s far enough, I flip open my phone and dial the number for information.

“What city?” the female recorded voice asks. “Washington, D.C.”

“What listing?”

“The U.S. Department of Justice.”

I press the phone to my ear as they give me the number. Seven digits later, I have to go through three secretaries before I get through.

They pulled their big gun. Time for me to pull mine. As always, he picks up on the first ring. “I’m here,” he answers.

“It’s Harris,” I tell him. “I need some help.”

“Just tell me where and when. I’m already on my way…”

13

YOU LOST HIM?”

“Just for the moment,” Janos said into his cell phone as he rounded the block outside Bullfeathers. “But he won’t—”

“That’s not what I asked. What I asked was: Did. You. Lose. Harris?”

Janos stopped midstep, standing in the middle of the street. A man in a maroon Oldsmobile punched his horn, screaming for him to move. Janos didn’t budge. Turning his back toward the Oldsmobile, he gripped the phone and took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said into his cell. “Yes, Mr. Sauls. I lost him.”

Sauls let the silence sink in.

Asshole, Janos thought to himself. He’d seen this last time he worked with Sauls. Big people always felt the need to make big points.

“Are we done?” Janos asked.

“Yes. We’re done for now,” Sauls replied.

“Good—then stop worrying. I had a long talk with your inside man. I know where Harris lives.”

“You really think he’s dumb enough to go home?”

“I’m not talking about his house,” Janos said into the phone. “I’ve studied him for six months. I know where he lives.”

As Janos finally stepped toward the sidewalk, the man in the Oldsmobile let go of his horn and slammed the gas. The car lurched forward, then skidded to a stop right next to Janos. The man inside lowered the passenger-side window about halfway. “Learn some manners, dickface!” he yelled from inside.

Craning down toward the car, Janos calmly leaned his arm against the half-open window, which gave slightly from the pressure. His jacket slid open just enough for the man to see Janos’s leather shoulder holster and, more important, the nine-millimeter Sig pistol held within it. Janos raised the right corner of his mouth. The man in the Oldsmobile hit the gas as fast as he could. As the wheels spun and the car took off, Janos kept his arm pressed tightly in place, letting his ring scrape against the Oldsmobile as it zipped away.

14

CAN I GET YOU anything?” the waitress asks.

“Yeah… yeah,” I say, looking up from the menu, which she thinks I’ve been reading for far too long. She’s only partially right. I have been sitting here for fifteen minutes, but the only reason the menu’s up is to hide my face.

“I’ll take a Stan’s Famous,” I tell her.

“Howdaya like it?”

“Rare. No cheese… and some grilled onions…” The quote on the menu says, “the best damn drink in town,” but the only reason I picked Stan’s Restaurant is because of its clientele. Located down the block from the offices of the Washington Post, Stan’s always has a few reporters and editors lurking around. And since most of the deadlines have already passed, the bar’s practically packed. I learned my lesson. If something goes wrong, I want witnesses with access to lots of ink.

“Can I take that from you?” the waitress asks, reaching for the menu.

“Actually, I’d rather hold on to it… if that’s okay.” She smiles and cocks her head at me. “God, your eyes are so green.”

“Th-Thank you.”

“I’m sorry,” she says, catching herself. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “My wife says the same thing.” She looks down at my hand but doesn’t spot a ring. Annoyed, she walks away. This trip isn’t about making new friends—it’s about seeing old ones…

I glance at my wrist and study the front door. I asked him to meet me at nine. Knowing his schedule, I figured he’d be here at nine-fifteen. It’s almost nine-thirty. I pick up my phone just to—

The door swings open, and he strolls inside with the limp he got from an old skiing injury. He keeps his head down, hoping to keep a low profile, but at least four people turn and pretend to look away. Now I know who the reporters are.

When I first met Lowell Nash, I was a second-year staffer in charge of the pen-signing machine; he was the chief of staff who wrote my recommendation for Georgetown Law’s night division. Three years later, when he went into private practice, I returned the favor by steering a few big donors his way as clients. Two years back, he returned the favor by having his law firm raise fifty thousand dollars for the Senator’s reelection campaign. Last year, when the President nominated him as Deputy Attorney General, I returned the favor again by making sure the Senator—a long-time member of the Judiciary Committee—made the confirmation process as smooth as possible. That’s how Washington works. Favors returning favors.

Lowell’s now the number two person at Justice—one of the highest law enforcement positions in the country. I’ve known him for over a decade. The favor was last in his court. I need it returned.

“Congressman,” he says with a nod.

“Mr. President,” I nod back. It’s not entirely impossible. At forty-two years old, Lowell’s the youngest black man ever to hold his position. That alone gives him a national profile. Like the headline in Legal Times read: THE NEXT COLIN POWELL? Playing to the article, he keeps his hair cut short and always sits at perfect attention. He’s never been in the military, but he knows the value of looking the part. Like I said, Lowell’s on his way—that is, barring some personal disaster.

“You look like crap,” he says, folding his black overcoat across the back of the chair and tossing his keys next to my matching phones.

I don’t respond.

“Just tell me what happened…”

Again, no response.

“C’mon, Harris—talk to me,” he pleads.

It’s hard to argue. That is what I came for. Eventually, I look up. “Lowell, I need your help.”

“Personal or professional help?”

“Law enforcement help.”

He folds his hands on the table with his pointer fingers extended up, church-steeple-style.

“How bad is it?” he asks.

“Pasternak’s dead.”

He nods. News travels fast in this town. Especially when it’s your old boss. “I heard it was a heart attack,” he adds.

“That’s what they’re saying?”

This time, he’s the one to stay quiet. He turns back toward the reporters, taking a quick scan of the restaurant, then twists back to me. “Tell me about Matthew,” he eventually says.

I start to explain but cut myself off. It doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t know Matthew.

Lowell and I lock eyes. He quickly looks away. “Lowell, what’s going on?”

“Burger—rare,” the waitress interrupts, plopping my plate down in front of me with a clang. “Anything for you?” she asks Lowell.

“I’m great… thanks.”

She gives me one last chance to make good and offer her a smile. When I don’t, she drills me with a silent sneer and heads off to another table.

“Lowell, this isn’t—” I stop and fight myself to bring it to a whisper. “Lowell, enough with the anxious silent-guy act—this is my life…”

He still won’t face me. He’s staring at the tabletop, fidgeting with the keys on his key ring.

“Lowell, if you know something—”

“They marked you.”

“What?”

“You’re marked, Harris. If they find you, you’re dead.”

“What’re you talking about? Who’s they? How do you know them?”

Lowell looks over his shoulder. I thought he was studying the reporters. He’s not. He’s studying the door.

“You should get out of here,” he says.

“I… I don’t understand. Aren’t you gonna help me?”

“Don’t you get it, Harris? The game is—”

“You know about the game?”

“Listen to me, Harris. These people are animals.”

“But you’re my friend,” I insist.

His eyes drop back to his key ring, which has a small plastic picture frame on it. He rubs his thumb against the frame, and I give it a closer look. The photo inside the frame is of his wife and four-year-old daughter. They’re at the beach with the surf crashing behind them. “We’re not all perfect, Harris,” he eventually says. “Sometimes, our mistakes hurt more than just ourselves.”

My eyes stay glued to the key ring. Whatever they have on Lowell… I don’t even want to know.

“You should leave,” he says for the second time.

The hamburger in front of me goes completely uneaten. Whatever appetite I had is gone. “Do you know the guy who killed Matthew and Pasternak?”

“Janos,” he says as his voice cracks. “The man should be in a cage.”

“Who does he work for? Are they law enforcement?” His hands begin to shake. He’s starting to unravel. “I’m sorry about your friends…”

“Please, Lowell…”

“Don’t ask me anymore,” he begs. Over his shoulder, the same four reporters turn around.

I close my eyes and rest my palms flat against the table. When I open them up, Lowell’s staring at his watch. “Go now,” he insists. “Now.”

I give him one last chance. He doesn’t take it.

“I’m sorry, Harris.”

Standing from my seat, I ignore the trembling in my legs and take a step toward the front door. Lowell grabs me by the wrist. “Not out the front,” he whispers, motioning toward the back.

I pause, unsure whether to trust him. It’s not like I have a choice. For the second time today, I dart for the kitchen and push my way through the swinging door.

“You can’t go back there,” the waitress snips at me.

I ignore her. Sure enough, beyond the sinks, there’s an open door in the back. I sprint outside, hurtle up the concrete steps and keep running, making two sharp rights down the poorly lit alley. A black rat scrambles in front of me, but it’s the least of my worries. Whoever these people are—how the hell could they move so fast? A biting pain pinches me at the base of my neck, and the world swirls for the slightest of seconds. I need to sit down… gather my thoughts… find a place to hide. My brain flips through the short list of people I can count on. But after watching Lowell’s reaction, it’s clear that whoever Janos is working for, they’re drilling through my life. And if they can get to someone as big as Lowell…

Straight ahead, a passing ambulance whips up Vermont Avenue. The sirens are deafening as they reverberate through the canyon of the brick alleyway. Instinctively I reach for one of my phones. I pat all my pockets. Damn… don’t tell me I left them in the—

I stop and turn around. The table of the restaurant. No. I can’t go back.

Double-checking to be sure, I stuff my hand inside the breast pocket of my jacket. There’s actually something there, but it’s not a phone.

I open my palm and reread the name off the blue plastic nametag:

Senate Page

Viv Parker

The white letters practically glow in front of me. In the distance, the siren of the ambulance fades. It’s gonna be a long night ahead, but as I turn the corner and run up Vermont Avenue, I know exactly where I’m going.

15

OUTSIDE STAN’S RESTAURANT, Lowell Nash slowly scanned the sidewalks up and down Vermont Avenue. He stared at the shadows in the doorways of every storefront. He even studied the homeless man sleeping on the bus-stop bench across the street. But as he turned the corner onto L Street, he couldn’t spot a twitch of movement. Even the air hung flat in the night. Picking up speed, he rushed toward his car, which was parked halfway up the block.

Again Lowell checked the sidewalks, the doorways, and the bus-stop benches. If his recent notoriety taught him anything, it was never to take chances. Approaching the silver Audi, he scrambled for his car key, pressed a button, and heard the doors unlock. He gave one last glance to his surroundings, then slipped inside and slammed the door shut.

“Where the hell is he?” Janos asked from the passenger seat.

Lowell yelled out loud, jumping so fast, he banged his funny bone against the car door.

“Where’s Harris?” Janos demanded.

“I was…” He grabbed his funny bone, holding it in pain. “Aaah… I was wondering the same about you.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’ve been waiting for almost an hour. He finally got up and left.”

“He was already here?”

“And gone,” Lowell replied. “Where were you?” Janos’s forehead wrinkled in anger. “You said ten o’clock,” he insisted.

“I said nine.”

“Don’t bullshit me.”

“I swear, I said nine.”

“I heard you say—” Janos cut himself off. He studied Lowell carefully. The sting from the funny bone was long past, but Lowell was still crouched over, cradling his elbow and refusing to make eye contact. If Janos could see Lowell’s expression, he’d also see the panic on Lowell’s face. Lowell may be weak, but he wasn’t an asshole. Harris was still a friend.

“Don’t fuck with me,” Janos warned.

Lowell quickly looked up, his eyes wide with fear. “Never… I’d never do that…”

Janos narrowed his glance, studying him carefully.

“I swear to you,” Lowell added.

Janos continued to stare. A second passed. Then two. Janos’s arm sprang out like a wildcat, palming Lowell by the face and slamming his head back into the driver’s-side window. Refusing to let go, Janos pulled back and smashed him against the glass again. Lowell grabbed Janos’s wrist, fighting to break his grip. Janos didn’t stop. With a final shove, he put all his weight behind it. The window finally cracked from the impact, leaving a jagged vein zigzagging across the glass.

Slumped down in his seat, Lowell held his head from the pain. He felt a trickle of blood skating down the back of his neck. “A-Are you nuts?”

Without saying a word, Janos opened the door and stepped into the warm night air.

It took Lowell twenty minutes to get his bearings. When he got home, he told his wife some kid on Sixteenth Street threw a rock at the car.

16

THERE—HE’S DOING it again,” Viv Parker said Monday afternoon, pointing to the elderly Senator from Illinois.

“Where?”

“Right there…”

Across the Floor of the Senate, in the third row of antique desks, the senior Senator from Illinois looked down, away from Viv.

“Sorry, still don’t see it,” Devin whispered as the gavel banged behind them.

As pages for the United States Senate, Viv and Devin sat on the small carpeted steps on the side of the rostrum, literally waiting for the phone to blink. It never took long. Within a minute, a low buzz erupted from the phone, and a small orange light hiccuped to life. But neither Viv nor Devin picked it up.

“Floor, this is Thomas,” a blond-headed page with a Virginia twang answered as he shot to his feet. Viv wasn’t sure why he stood up for every call. When she asked Thomas, he said it was part for decorum, part to be prepared in case he had to spot a passing Senator. Personally, Viv thought there was only one “part” that really mattered: to show off the fact that he was head page. Even at the bottom of the totem pole, hierarchy was king.

“Yep—I’m on it,” the head page said into the receiver. As he hung up the phone, he looked over to Viv and Devin. “They need one,” he explained.

Nodding, Devin stood from his seat at the rostrum and dashed off toward the cloakroom.

Still on the rostrum, Viv glanced over at the Senator from Illinois, who again raised his head and leveled a leering glare directly at her. Viv tried to look away, but she couldn’t ignore it. It was as if he were squinting straight through her chest. Fidgeting with the Senate ID around her neck, she wondered if that’s what he was staring at. It wouldn’t surprise her. The ID was her ticket in. From day one, she was worried someone would step in and snatch it back. Or maybe he was staring at her cheap navy suit… or the fact that she was black… or that she was taller than most pages, including the boys. Five feet ten and a half inches—and that was without her beat-up shoes and the close-cropped Afro that she wore just like her mom’s.

The phone buzzed quietly behind her. “Floor, this is Thomas,” the head page said as he shot to his feet. “Yep—I’m on it.” He turned to Viv as he hung up the phone. “They need one…”

Nodding, Viv stood from her seat but carefully stared down at the blue-carpeted floor in a final attempt to avoid the glance of the Senator from Illinois. Her skin color, she could handle. Same with her height—like her mom taught, don’t apologize for what God gave you. But if it was her suit, as stupid as it sounded, well… some things hit home. Since the day they started, all twenty-nine of her fellow pages loved to complain about the uniform requirement. Every Senate page bitched about it. Everyone but Viv. As she knew from her school back in Michigan, the only people who moan about required uniforms are the ones who can compete in the fashion show.

“Move it, Viv—they need someone now,” the head page called out from the rostrum.

Viv didn’t bother to look back. In fact, as she rushed toward the cloakroom in the back of the chamber, she didn’t look anywhere but straight down. Still feeling the Senator’s stare burning through her, and refusing to risk eye contact, she speed-marched up the center aisle—but as she blew past row after row of antique desks, she couldn’t ignore the haunting voice in the back of her head. It was the same voice she had heard when she was eleven and Darlene Bresloff stole her RollerBlades… and when she was thirteen and Neil Grubin purposely squirted maple syrup all over her church clothes. It was a strong, unflinching voice. It was her mom’s voice. The same mom who made Viv march up to Darlene and demand her RollerBlades back now… and who, as Viv begged and pleaded to the contrary, personally carried the maple-syrup-covered suit back to Neil’s house, up the three flights of stairs, and into the living room, so Neil’s mother—whom they’d never met before—could see it for herself. That’s whose voice was echoing in the back of her head. And that’s the voice she heard halfway up the aisle… with the Senator dead ahead.

Maybe I should just say something, Viv decided. Nothing rude, like What’re you looking at? No, this was still a United States Senator. No reason to be stupid. Better to go with the simple: Hi there, Senator… or Nice to see you, Senator… or something like… like… Can I help you? There we go. Can I help you? Simple but straightforward. Just like Momma.

With less than twenty feet to go, Viv raised her chin just enough to make sure the Senator was still there. He hadn’t moved from behind the hundred-year-old desk. His eyes were still on her. Within two steps, Viv’s pace slowed imperceptibly, and she again gripped the ID as it dangled from her neck. Her thumbnail flicked at the back of the ID badge, scratching at the piece of Scotch tape that held the cutout picture of her mom in place. Viv’s photo on front, Momma on back. It was only fair, Viv had thought the day she Scotch-taped it there. Viv didn’t get to the Senate alone; she shouldn’t be there alone. And with Mom resting on her chest… well… everyone hides their strength in a different place.

Ten feet ahead of her, at the end of the aisle, the Senator stood his ground. Vivian, don’t you dare back down, she could hear her mom warn. Stay positive. Viv tightened her jaw and got her first glimpse of the Senator’s shoes. All she had to do was look up and say the words. Can I help you?… Can I help you?… She replayed them in her head. Her thumbnail continued to scratch at the back of her ID. Stay positive. She was close enough to see the cuff on the Senator’s slacks. Just look up, she told herself. Stay positive. And with one final deep breath, Viv did just that. Steeling herself, she lifted her head, locked on to the Senator’s deep-gray eyes… and quickly looked back down at the dark blue carpet.

“Excuse me,” Viv whispered as she ducked slightly and sidestepped around him. The Senator didn’t even look down as she passed. Leaving the aisle and heading across the back of the chamber, Viv finally let go of her ID… and felt it slap against her chest.

“Got one for you, Viv,” Blutter announced as she pulled open the glass-paned door and smelled the familiar stale air of the cloakroom. Originally designed to store Senators’ coats when they had business on the Floor, the cloakroom was still a cramped, tiny space. She didn’t have to go far to reach Blutter.

“Is it close?” Viv asked, already exhausted. “S-414-D,” Blutter said from his seat behind the main cloakroom desk. Of the four full-time staffers who answered phones in the cloakroom, Ron Blutter was the youngest at twenty-two, which was also why he was the designated cloakroom boss in charge of the page program. Blutter knew it was a crap job—keeping track of his party’s puberty-ridden sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds—but at least it was better than being a page.

“They asked for you personally,” Blutter added. “Something to do with your sponsor’s office.”

Viv nodded. The only way to get a job as a page was to be sponsored by a Senator, but as the only black page in the entire page program, she was well accustomed to the fact that there were other requirements of the job besides delivering packages. “Another photo op?” she asked.

“I’m guessing.” Blutter shrugged as Viv signed herself out on the locator sheet. “Though from the room number… maybe it’s just a reception.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Behind her, the door to the cloakroom opened, and the Senator from Illinois lumbered inside, heading straight for the old wooden phone booths that lined the narrow L-shaped room. As always, Senators were tucked into the booths, returning calls and gabbing away. The Senator stepped into the first booth on the right and slid the door shut.

“By the way, Viv,” Blutter added as his phone started to ring, “don’t let Senator Spooky creep you out. It’s not you—it’s him. Whenever he prepares for a Floor speech, he stares through everyone like they’re a ghost.”

“No, I know… I just—”

“It’s not you. It’s him,” Blutter reiterated. “You hear me? It’s him.”

Lifting her chin, Viv pushed her shoulders back and buttoned her blue suit jacket. Her ID dangled from around her neck. She headed for the door as quickly as she could. Blutter went back to the phones. There was no way she’d let him see the smile on her face.

S-414-B… S-414-C… S-414-D… Viv counted to herself as she followed the room numbers on the fourth floor of the Capitol. She hadn’t realized that Senator Kalo had offices up here, but that was typical Capitol—everyone scattered all over the place. Remembering the story about the female staffer giving new meaning to the term briefing the Senator, she stopped at the heavy oak door and gave it a sharp knock. Truth be told, she knew the story was bullshit—just something Blutter told them so they’d watch their manners. Indeed, a few staffers may’ve had some fun, but from the looks of the rest… the stiffness she saw in the halls… none of these people were having sex.

Waiting for a response, she was surprised not to find one. She knocked again. Just to be safe.

Again, no answer.

With a twist, she opened the door a tiny crack. “Senate page,” she announced. “Anyone here…?”

Still no response. Viv didn’t think twice. If a staffer was tracking down the Senator for a photo op, they’d want her just to take a seat by the desk. But as Viv entered the dark office, there wasn’t an open seat. In fact, there wasn’t even a desk. Instead, at the center of the room were two large mahogany tables, pushed together so they could hold the dozen or so outdated computer monitors piled on top. On her left, three red leather rolling chairs were stacked one on top of the other, while on her right, empty file cabinets, storage boxes, a few spare computer keyboards, and even an upside-down refrigerator were shoved together in a makeshift pile. The walls were bare. No pictures… no diplomas… nothing personal. This wasn’t an office. More like storage. From the layer of dust that covered the half-lowered blinds, the place was clearly deserted. In fact, the only evidence that anyone had even been in there was the handwritten note on the edge of the conference table:

Please pick up the phone

At the bottom of the note was an arrow pointing to the right, where a telephone sat atop one of the open file cabinets.

Confused, Viv raised an eyebrow, unsure why someone would—

The phone rang, and Viv jumped back, bumping into the closed door. She searched around the room. No one there. The phone rang again.

Viv reread the note and cautiously stepped forward. “H-Hello,” she answered, picking up the receiver.

“Hello, who’s this?” a warm voice countered. “Who’s this?” Viv countered.

“Andy,” the man answered. “Andy Defresne. Now, who’s this?”

“Viv.”

“Viv who?”

“Viv Parker,” she replied. “Is this… Is this some kinda joke? Thomas, is that you?”

There was a click. The phone went dead.

Viv hung up the receiver and looked up to check the corners of the ceiling. She saw something like this on Bloopers and Practical Jokes once. But there wasn’t a camera anywhere. And the longer Viv stood there, the more she knew she’d already been there too long.

Spinning around, she rushed to the door and clutched the doorknob in her sweat-covered hand. She fought to turn it, but it wouldn’t budge—like someone was holding it from the outside. She gave it one last twist, and it finally gave. But as the door swung open, she stopped in her tracks. A tall man with messy black hair was blocking her way.

“Viv, huh?” the man asked.

“I swear, you touch me, and I’ll scream so loud, it’ll make your nuts shatter like crystal… uh… like crystal balls.”

“Relax,” Harris said as he stepped inside. “All I want to do is talk to you.”

17

I SEARCH FOR A NAMETAG on the girl’s lapel. It’s not there. Reading my reaction, she’s obviously scared. I don’t blame her. After what happened with Matthew, she should be.

“Stay back,” she threatens. Stepping backward into the room, she takes a deep breath, winding up to scream. I raise my hand to cut her off; then, out of nowhere, she tilts her head to the side.

“What a minute…” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I know you.”

I match her raised eyebrow with one of my own. “Excuse me?”

“From that… from the speech you gave. With the pages…” She bumps back into the edge of the conference table and looks up at me. “You were… you were really good. That bit about making the right enemies… I thought about that for a week.”

She’s trying to sweet-talk. My guard’s already up. “And then when you…” She cuts herself off, staring at her feet.

“What?” I ask.

“That thing you did with the Lorax…”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nu-uh… c’mon—you put that pin on Congressman Enemark. That was… that was the coolest thing ever.”

Like I said, my guard’s up. But as I spot the wide-eyed smile on her face, I’m already starting to second-guess. At first glance, she’s slightly imposing, and it’s not just from the dark navy suit that adds another year or two to her age. Her height alone… almost five feet eleven… she’s taller than me. But the longer she stands there, the more I see the rest of the picture. Back against the table, she slumps her shoulders and lowers her neck. It’s the same trick Matthew used to use to make himself look shorter.

“He never found out, did he?” she asks, suddenly hesitant. “About the Lorax, I mean?”

She’s trying not to push, but excitement’s getting the best of her. At first, I assumed it was all an act. Now I’m not so sure. I narrow my eyes, studying even closer. The frayed stitching on her suit… the worn creases in her white shirt… She’s definitely not from money, and the way she’s fidgeting and trying to hide a loose button, it’s still an issue for her. It’s hard enough to fit in when you’re seventeen; it’s even worse when everyone around you is at least a decade or two older. Still, her mocha brown eyes have a real age to them. I’m guessing early independence from the lack of cash—either that or she’s getting the Oscar for best actress. Only way to find out which is to get her talking. “Who told you about the Lorax?” I ask.

She shyly turns away at the question. “You can’t tell him I told you, okay? Please promise…” She’s truly embarrassed.

“You have my word,” I add, pretending to play along. “It was LaRue… from the bathroom.”

“The shoeshine guy?”

“You promised you wouldn’t say anything. It’s just… we saw him in the elevator… He was laughing, and Nikki and I asked what’s so funny and he said it, but no one’s supposed to know. He swore us to secrecy…” The words tumble from her mouth like she’s confessing a junior high school crush. There’s a hint of panic behind each syllable, though. She takes trust seriously.

“You’re not mad, are you?” she asks.

“Why would I be mad?” I reply, hoping to keep her talking.

“No… no reason…” She cuts herself off, and her wide-eyed smile returns. “But can I just say… putting that Lorax on him… that’s easily, without exaggeration, the greatest prank of all time! And Enemark’s the perfect Member to do it to—not just for the prank part, but just the principle of it,” she adds, her voice picking up steam. She’s all gush and idealism. There’s no slowing her down. “My granddad… he was one of the last Pullman Porters, and he used to tell us if we didn’t pick the right fights—”

“Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in?” I blurt.

She finally hits the brakes. “Wha?”

I forgot what it was like to be seventeen. Zero to sixty, and sixty to zero, all in one breath.

“You know what I’m talking about,” I say.

Her mouth gapes open. “Wait,” she stutters as she starts fingering the ID around her neck. “Is this about the Senate pens Chloe stole? I told her not to touch ’em, but she kept saying if they were in the cup—”

“Lose anything lately?” I ask, pulling her blue nametag from my pocket and holding it out between us.

She’s definitely surprised. “How’d you get that?”

“How’d you lose it?”

“I have… I have no idea… it disappeared last week—they just ordered me a new one.” Whether she’s lying or serious, she’s not stupid. If she’s really in trouble, she wants to know how much. “Why? Where’d you find it?”

I bluff hard. “Toolie Williams gave it to me,” I say, referring to the young black kid who drove his car into Matthew.

“Who?”

I have to clench my jaw to keep myself calm. I reach once more into my pocket and pull out a folded-up picture of Toolie from this morning’s Metro section. He’s got big ears and a surprisingly kind grin. I almost tear the picture in half as I struggle to unfold it.

“Ever seen him before?” I ask, handing her the photo. She shakes her head. “I don’t think so…”

“You sure about that? He’s not a boyfriend? Or some kid you know from—”

“Why? Who is he?”

There’re forty-three muscular movements that the human face is capable of making. I have friends, Senators, and Congressmen lie directly to me every day. Pull the bottom lip in, raise the upper eyelids, lower the chin. By now, I know all the tricks. But for the life of me, as I stare up at this tall black girl with the tight-cropped Afro, I can’t find a single muscle twitch that shows me anything but seventeen-year-old innocence.

“Wait a minute,” she interrupts, now laughing. “Is this another prank? Did Nikki put you up to this?” She flips her blue nametag over as if she’s searching for the Lorax. “What’d you do, rig it with ink so it’ll spray all over the next Senator I talk to?”

Leaning forward, she takes a cautious look at the nametag. Around her neck, her ID badge begins to twirl. I spot a photo of a black woman Scotch-taped to the back. I’m guessing Mom or an aunt. Someone who keeps her strong—or at least is trying to.

I once again study Viv. No makeup… no trendy jewelry… no fancy haircut—none of the totems of popularity. Even those slumped shoulders… There’s a girl like her in every school—the outsider looking in. In five years, she’ll kick off her shell, and her classmates will wonder why they never noticed her. Right now, she sits in the back of the class, watching in silence. Just like Matthew. Just like me. I shake my head to myself. No way this girl’s a killer.

“Listen, Viv…”

“The only thing I don’t understand is who this Toolie guy is,” she says, still giggling. “Or did Nikki put you up to that, too?”

“Don’t worry about Toolie. He just… he’s just someone who knew a friend of mine.”

Now she’s confused. “So what’s it have to do with my nametag?”

“Actually, I’m trying to figure that out myself.”

“Well, what’s the name of your friend?”

I decide to give it one last shot. “Matthew Mercer.”

“Matthew Mercer? Matthew Mercer,” she says again. “How do I know that name?”

“You don’t; you just—”

“Waitaminute,” she interrupts. “Isn’t that the guy who got hit by the car?”

I reach out and snatch the newspaper photo from her hands.

Now she’s the one studying me. “Is he the one who had my nametag?”

I don’t answer.

“Why would he…?” She stops herself, noticing my stare. “If it makes you feel better, I don’t know how he got it. I mean, I understand you’re upset about your friend’s accident…”

I look up as she says the word accident. She locks right on me. Her mouth hangs open, revealing her age—but her eyes show something different. She’s got depth in her gaze.

“What?” she asks.

I turn away, pretending to follow an imaginary sound.

“It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

“Okay, everybody calm down,” I say, forcing a laugh. “Listen, you should really get going, Viv. That’s your name, right? Viv? Viv, I’m Harris.” I extend a soft handshake and put my other hand on her shoulder. That one I got from the Senator. People don’t talk when they’re being touched. She doesn’t budge. But she still stares at me with those mocha eyes.

“Was it an accident or not?” she asks.

“Of course it was an accident. I’m sure it was an accident. Positive. I just… when Matthew was hit by the car, your nametag happened to be in one of the Dumpsters near the scene. That’s it. No big deal—nothing to panic about. I just figured if you saw anything… I promised his family I’d ask around. Now we at least know it was just something in the nearby trash.”

It’s a pretty good speech and would work on ninety-nine percent of the populace. The problem is, I still can’t tell if this girl is in the top one percent. Eventually, though, I get lucky. She nods, looking relieved. “So you’re okay? You got everything you need?”

In the ten minutes since I’ve met her, it’s the hardest question she’s asked. When I woke up this morning, I thought Viv would have all the answers. Instead, I’m back to another blank slate—and right now, the only way to fill the chalkboard is to figure out who else is playing the game. Matthew’s got files in his office… I’ve got notes in my desk… time to dig through the rest of the mess. The thing is, Janos isn’t stupid. The moment I try to step back into my life, he’ll stab his little shock box straight into my chest. I already tried calling in friends… Only a fool would risk that again. I glance around the tiny room, but there’s no way to avoid it—I don’t have a chance. Not unless I figure out how to make myself invisible… or get some help in that department.

“Thanks again for finding the nametag,” Viv interrupts. “Let me know if I can ever return the favor.”

I jerk my head toward her and replay the words in my head.

It’s not the safest bet I’ve ever made, but right now, with my life on the line, I don’t think I’ve got much of a choice. “Listen, Viv, I hate to be a pain, but… were you really serious about that favor?”

“S-Sure… but does it have to do with Matthew, because…”

“No, no—not at all,” I insist. “It’s just a quick errand—for an upcoming hearing we’re working on. You’ll be in and out in two minutes. Sound okay?”

Without a word, Viv scans the room around us, from the multiple keyboards to the stack of discarded office chairs. It’s the one flaw in my story. If everything were truly kosher, why’re we talking in a storage room?

“Harris, I don’t know…”

“It’s just a pickup—no one’ll even know you’re there. All you have to do is grab one file and—”

“We’re not supposed to do pickups unless they come through the cloakroom…”

“Please, Viv—it’s just one file.”

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“I told you, it has nothing to do with Matthew.”

She looks down, noticing the stitching in the knee of my suit. I had a local dry cleaner sew up the hole from yesterday’s leap off the building. But the scar’s still there. Her hand goes back to fidgeting with her ID. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice breaking slightly. “I can’t.”

Knowing better than to beg, I wave it off and force a smile. “No, I understand. No big deal.”

When I was seventeen years old, the moment a thought came into my head, it came out of my mouth. To Viv’s credit, she stays perfectly silent. She opens the door, her body still halfway in the room. “Listen, I should…”

“You should go,” I agree.

“But if you—”

“Viv, don’t sweat it. I’ll just call the cloakroom—it’ll be done in no time.”

She nods, staring right through me. “I really am sorry about your friend.”

I nod a thank-you.

“So I guess I’ll see you around the Capitol?” she asks.

I force another smile. “Absolutely,” I say. “And if you ever need anything, just call my office.”

She likes that one. “And don’t forget,” she adds, lowering her voice in her best impression of me, “the best thing you can do in life is make the right enemies…”

“No doubt about that,” I call out as the door closes. She’s gone, and my voice tumbles to a whisper. “No doubt about it.”

18

HEADING UP THE fourth-floor hallway as the door slammed behind her, Viv told herself not to look back. However her nametag had gotten there, all she needed was to see the desperate look on Harris’s face to know where this was headed. When she first saw him speak to the pages, he’d glided through the room so smoothly, she was tempted to look at his feet to see if they touched the ground. Even today, she still wasn’t sure of the answer. And it wasn’t just because of his charm. At her church in Michigan, she’d seen plenty of charm. But Harris had something more.

Of the four speakers who welcomed the pages during orientation, two gave warnings, one gave advice… and Harris… Harris gave them a challenge. Not just as pages, but as people. As he’d said, it was the first rule of politics: Don’t count even the smallest person out. When the words left his lips, the entire room sat up straight. Yet today, what she just saw in that room—today, the man who had the balls to give that speech—that man was long gone. Today, Harris was shaken… on edge… Without a doubt, his confidence was broken. Whatever had hit him, it’d clearly cracked him in the sternum.

Picking up her pace, Viv rushed toward the elevator. It didn’t take a lifetime in politics to see the hurricane coming, and right now, the last thing she needed was to step inside the whirlwind. Not your problem, she told herself. Just keep going. But as she pressed the call button for the elevator, she couldn’t help it. With a sharp pivot, she took a fast glance at Harris’s door. Still shut. No surprise. From the ashen look on his face, he wouldn’t be coming out for a bit.

A hushed rumble broke the silence, and the door to the elevator slid open, revealing the elevator operator—a dark-skinned black woman with cobwebs of gray hair at her temples. From her wooden stool in the elevator, she looked up at Viv and lifted an eyebrow at her height.

“Momma fed you the good stuff, huh?” the operator asked.

“Yeah… I guess…”

Without another word, the operator raised her newspaper in front of her face. Viv was used to it by now. From high school to here, it was never easy fitting in.

“Home base?” the operator asked from behind the paper.

“Sure,” Viv answered with a shrug.

The operator turned away from her paper, studying Viv’s reaction. “Crappy day, huh?”

“More like a weird one.”

“Look at the good side: Today we got taco salad bar at lunch,” the operator said, turning back to her paper as the elevator lurched downward.

Viv nodded a thank-you, but it went unnoticed. Without looking back, the operator added, “Don’t sulk, sweetie—your face’ll stick and all that.”

“I’m not… I—” Viv cut herself off. If she’d learned anything in the past few weeks, it was the benefit of staying quiet. It was the one thing her family always tried to teach—from her dad’s work in the military to her mom’s job in the dental practice, she knew the value of keeping her mouth shut and ears open. Indeed, it was one of the reasons Viv got the job in the first place. A year ago, as her mom was hunched over the dental chair, a patient in a pinstriped suit was having his wisdom teeth taken out ASAP. If she hadn’t been listening to the mumbled small talk, she’d never have heard that the patient was Senator Kalo from Michigan—one of the oldest proponents of the page program. Four impacted teeth later, the Senator walked out with Viv’s name in his suit pocket. That was all it took to change her life: one kind favor from a stranger.

Leaning against the back railing of the elevator, Viv read the newspaper over the elevator operator’s shoulder. Another Supreme Court Justice was stepping down. The President’s daughter was once again in trouble. But none of it seemed important. On the floor, the rest of the newspaper was tucked below the wooden stool. The Metro section was on top. Viv’s eyes went right to the headline: Hit-and-Run Driver’s Identity Released. Below the headline was the photo Harris just showed her. The young black man with the soft smile. Toolie Williams. Viv couldn’t take her eyes off him. For some reason, her nametag was found near a dead man. Even the very best reason couldn’t be good.

“Can I borrow this a sec?” she asked as she bent down and grabbed the paper from under the stool. Her eyes narrowed as she pulled it close. The photo blurred into a forest of gray dots. With a blink, it snapped back—and Toolie Williams was once again staring straight at her. Her thoughts rolled back to the Senator. That was all it took to change her life. One kind favor from a stranger.

“Here you go,” the elevator operator announced as the elevator bucked to a halt and the door creaked open. “Second floor…”

From the moment Viv lowered her head to duck past the Senator from Illinois and his leering glare, she could hear her mother’s insistent scolding in the back of her brain. Stand up for yourself. Always stand up for yourself. That was part of the reason Momma had wanted her to come to Capitol Hill. But right now, as Viv looked down at the grainy photo in the newspaper, she realized Mom only had part of the picture. It’s not just about standing up for yourself—it’s also about standing up for those who need it.

“This your stop or not?” the operator asked.

“Actually, I forgot something upstairs,” Viv replied.

“You’re the boss lady. Fourth floor it is—up, up, and away…”

Squeezing outside the elevator the moment the door opened, Viv rushed up the hallway, hoping she wasn’t too late. Her oversized suit jacket fanned out behind her as she ran. If she missed him now… No. She didn’t want to think it. Stay positive. Stay positive.

“Sorry… coming through…” she called out, cutting between two male staffers, each carrying a redwell accordion file.

“Slow down,” the taller of them warned.

Typical, Viv thought. Everyone likes to boss around the pages. Instinctively she slowed her pace to a calm walk—but within two steps, she looked back at the two men. They were just staffers. Sure, she was a page, but… they were just staffers. Picking up speed, she started to run. It felt even better than she thought.

At the end of the hall, she stopped short, made sure the hallway was empty, and knocked on the door.

“It’s me!” she called out.

No answer.

“Harris, it’s Viv. You in there?”

Again, no reply. She tried the doorknob. It didn’t budge. Locked.

“Harris, it’s an emergency…!”

There was a click. The doorknob turned, and the heavy door flew open. Harris stuck his head out, cautiously checking the hallway.

“You okay?” he finally asked.

Wiping her palm against her pant leg, Viv reasked herself the question. If she wanted to walk away, this was her chance. She could feel her ID dangling from her neck. She never reached for it. Not once. Instead, she stared Harris straight in the eye.

“I… uh… I just… you still need help with that pickup?”

Harris tried to hide his grin, but even he wasn’t good enough to pull it off. “It’s not gonna be as easy as you think. Are you sure you can—?”

“Harris, I’m one of two black girls in an all-white school, and I’m the dark-skinned one. One year, they broke into my locker and wrote nigger across the back of my gym shirt. How much harder can it get? Now tell me where to go before I get all skeezed out and change my mind.”

19

STARING AT THE sheet of paper taped to the side of the cloakroom’s stainless steel refrigerator, Viv followed her pointer finger up the alphabetical list of Senators. Ross… Reissman… Reed. Behind her, out on the Senate Floor, Senator Reed from Florida was delivering yet another speech on the importance of the rent-to-own industry. For Reed, it was the perfect way to get his pro-business ratings up. For Viv, it was the perfect moment to bring the long-winded speaker some water. Whether he wanted it or not.

Scanning the water chart one last time, she read through the three columns: Ice, No Ice, and Saratoga Seltzer. Viv still saw it as one of the Senate’s best perks of power. They didn’t just know how you liked your coffee. They knew how you liked your water. According to the chart, Reed was a no-ice guy. Figures, Viv thought.

Anxious to get moving, she pulled a bottle of water from the fridge, poured it into a chilled glass, and made her way out to the Senate Floor. Senator Reed hadn’t asked for any water, nor did he raise his hand to summon a page. But Viv was all too aware of how security in the page program worked. Indeed, with so many seventeen-year-olds working alongside grown staffers, the program made sure that every page was always accounted for. If Viv wanted to disappear for an hour or so, the best way was to pretend it was work-related.

As Viv placed the water next to the Senator’s lectern, the Senator, as usual, ignored her. Smiling to herself, she still leaned in close—just long enough to make it look real—as if she were getting directions. Spinning around with newfound purpose, Viv marched back to the cloakroom and headed straight for the head of the page program’s desk.

“Reed just asked me to run an errand,” she announced to Blutter, who was, as usual, dealing with another call. Flipping through the locator sheet on the desk, Viv signed herself out. Under Destination, she wrote Rayburn—the farthest building in the Capitol complex where Senate page deliveries were still allowed. That alone bought her at least an hour. And an hour was all it would take.

Within five minutes, Viv pushed open the burled-walnut door of the House cloakroom. “Here for a pickup,” she had told the security guard. He buzzed her right in. As she stepped into the cloakroom, she was smacked in the face with the steamy smell of hot dogs. Further up on her left, she followed the smell to the small crush of Members and staff crowded in front of a tiny lunch counter, the source of the hot dog smell. Forget cigars and other backroom clichés—on the House side of the Capitol, this was the real cloakroom whiff. And in that one sniff, Viv saw the subtle but inescapable difference: Senators got catered ice preferences; House Members fought for their own hot dogs. The Millionaire Club versus the House of the People. One nation, under God.

“Can I help you?” a female voice asked as she made her way out to the House Floor.

Turning around, she saw a petite young woman with frizzy blond hair sitting behind a dark wood desk.

“I’m looking for the page supervisor,” Viv explained.

“I prefer the term sovereign,” the woman quipped just seriously enough to leave Viv wondering if it was a joke. Before she could comment, the phone on the woman’s desk rang, and she pounced for the receiver. “Cloakroom,” she announced. “Yep… room number?… I’ll send one right now…” Waving a single finger in the air, she signaled the pages who sat on the mahogany benches near her desk. A second later, a seventeen-year-old Hispanic boy in gray slacks and a navy sport coat hopped out of his seat.

“Ready to run, A.J.?” the woman asked as the boy gave Viv the once-over. Seeing her suit, he added an almost unnoticeable sneer. Suit instead of sport coat. Even at the page level, it was House versus Senate. “Pickup in Rayburn B-351-C,” the woman added.

“Again?” the page moaned. “Haven’t these people ever heard of E-mail?”

Ignoring the complaint, the woman turned back to Viv. “Now what can I help you with?” she asked.

“I work over in the Senate—”

“Clearly,” the woman said.

“Yeah, well… we… uh… we were wondering if you guys keep track of your page deliveries. We have a Senator who got a package last week and swears he gave the page another envelope on the way out—but naturally, since he’s a Senator, he has no idea if the page was House or Senate. We all look alike, y’know.”

The woman smiled at the joke, and Viv breathed a sigh of relief. She was finally in.

“All we keep is the current stuff,” the woman said, motioning to the sign-out sheet. “Everything else goes in the trash.”

“So you don’t have anything before…”

“Today. That’s it. I trash it every night. To be honest, it’s only there to keep track of you guys. If one of you disappears—well, you know what happens when you let seventeen-year-olds run around with a room-full of Congressmen…” Tilting her head back, the woman snorted loudly through her nose.

Viv was dead silent.

“Relax, honey—just some page humor.”

“Yeah,” Viv said, forcing a strained grin. “Listen, uh… can I make some copies of these? At least that way we show him something.”

“Help yourself,” the woman with the frizzy hair said. “Whatever makes your life easy…”

20

STUCK IN THE STORAGE room and waiting for Viv, I hold the receiver to my ear as I dial the number.

“Congressman Grayson’s office,” a young man with a flat South Dakota accent eventually answers. Gotta give Grayson points for that. Whenever a constituent calls, the receptionist is the first voice they hear. For that reason alone, smart Congressmen make sure their front office people always have the right accent.

Looking past the stack of chairs in the storage room, I grip the receiver and give the receptionist just enough of a pause to make him think I’m busy. “Hi, I’m looking for your Appropriations person,” I finally say. “Somehow, I think I misplaced his info.”

“And who should I say is calling?”

I’m tempted to use Matthew’s name, but the news probably already traveled. Still, I stick to the fear factor. “I’m calling from Interior Approps. I need to—”

Cutting me off, he puts me on hold. A few seconds later, he’s back.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “His assistant says he just stepped out for a moment.”

It’s an obvious lie. At this level, House staffers don’t have assistants. Regardless, I shouldn’t be surprised. If I’m calling through the main line, it’s not a call worth taking.

“Tell him I’m from the Chairman’s office and that this is about Congressman Grayson’s request…”

Again I’m on hold. Again he’s back in seconds. “Hold on one moment, sir. I’m transferring you to Perry…”

First rule of politics: Everyone’s afraid.

“This is Perry,” a scratchy but gruff voice answers.

“Hey, Perry, I’m calling from Interior Approps—filling in on Matthew’s issues after what—”

“Yeah, no… I heard. Really sorry about that. Matthew was a sweetheart.”

He says the word was, and I close my eyes. It still hits like a sock full of quarters.

“So what can I do for you?” Perry asks.

I think back to the original bet. Whatever Matthew saw that day… the reason he and Pasternak were killed… it started with this. A gold mine sale in South Dakota that needed to be slipped into the bill. Grayson’s office made the initial request. I don’t have much information beyond that. This guy can give me more. “Actually, we’re just reexamining all the different requests,” I explain. “When Matthew—with Matthew gone, we want to make sure we know everyone’s priorities.”

“Of course, of course… happy to help.” He’s a staffer for a low-level Member and thinks I can throw him a few projects. Right there, the gruffness in his voice evaporates.

“Okay,” I begin, staring down at my blank sheet of paper. “I’m looking at your original request list, and obviously, I know you’re not shocked to hear you can’t have everything on it…”

“Of course, of course…” he says for the second time, chuckling. I can practically hear him slapping his knee. I don’t know how Matthew dealt with it.

“So which projects are your must-gets?” I ask.

“The sewer system,” he shoots back, barely taking a breath. “If you can do that… if we improve drainage… that’s the one that wins us the district.”

He’s smarter than I thought. He knows how low his Congressman is on the ladder. If he asks for every toy on the Christmas list, he’ll be lucky if he gets a single one. Better just to focus on the Barbie Dream House.

“Those sewers… It really will change the election,” he adds, already pleading.

“So everything else on this list…”

“Is all second-tier.”

“What about this gold mine thing?” I ask, teeing up my bluff. “I thought Grayson was really hot for it.”

“Hot for it? He’s never even heard of it. We threw that out for a donor as a pure try-our-best.”

When Matthew told me about the bet, he said exactly the same: Grayson’s office supposedly didn’t care about the mine—which means this guy Perry is either genuinely agreeing or is single-handedly setting the new world record for bullshit.

“Weird…” I say, still trying to dig. “I thought Matthew got some calls on it.”

“If he did, it’s only because Wendell Mining lobbied up.”

I write the words Wendell Mining on the sheet of paper. When it comes to the game, I’ve always thought the various votes and different asks were inconsequential—but not if they tell me who else was playing.

“What about the rest of your delegation?” I ask, referring to the South Dakota Senators. “Anyone gonna scream if we kill the mining request?”

He thinks I’m covering my ass before I cut the gold mine loose, but what I really want to know is, who else in Congress has any interest in the project?

“No one,” he says.

“Anyone against it?”

“It’s a dumpy gold mine in a town that’s so small, it doesn’t even have a stoplight. To be honest, I don’t think anyone even knows about it but us.” He tosses me another knee-slapping laugh that curdles in my ear. Three nights ago, someone bid $1,000 for the right to put this gold mine in the bill. Someone else bid five grand. That means there’re at least two people out there who were watching what was going on. But right now, I can’t find a single one of them.

“So how we looking on our sewer system?” Perry asks on the other line.

“I’ll do my best,” I tell him, looking down at my nearly blank sheet of paper. The words Wendell Mining float weightlessly toward the top. But as I grab the paper and reread it for the sixth time, I slowly feel the chessboard expand. Of course. I didn’t even think about it…

“You still there?” Perry asks.

“Actually, I gotta run,” I say, already feeling the sharp bite of adrenaline. “I just remembered a call I have to make.”

21

HI, I’M HERE FOR a pickup,” Viv announced as she stepped into room 2406 of the Rayburn Building, home office of Matthew’s former boss, Congressman Nelson Cordell from Arizona.

“Excuse me?” the young man behind the front desk asked with a Native American accent. He wore a denim shirt with a bolo tie that had a silver clasp with the Arizona state seal on it. Viv hadn’t seen it in the offices of the other Arizona Members. Good for Cordell, Viv thought. It was nice to see someone remembering where they were from.

“We got a call for a package pickup,” Viv explained. “This is 2406, right?”

“Yeah,” the young receptionist said, searching his desk for outgoing mail. “But I didn’t call for a page.”

“Well, someone did,” Viv said. “There was a package for the Floor.”

The young man stood up straight, and his bolo tie bounced against his chest. Everyone’s terrified of the boss—just like Harris said.

“You have a phone I can use?” Viv asked.

He pointed to the handset on the wrought-iron southwestern-style end table. “I’ll check in back and see if anyone else called it in.”

“Great… thanks,” Viv said as the young man disappeared through a door on the right. The instant he was gone, she picked up the phone and dialed the five-digit extension Harris had given her.

“This is Dinah,” a female voice answered. As Matthew’s office mate and head clerk for the House Appropriations Interior subcommittee, Dinah had incredible access and a staggering amount of power. More important, she had caller ID, which was why Harris said the call had to be made from here. Right now, the words Hon. Cordell appeared on Dinah’s digital phone screen.

“Hey, Dinah,” Viv began, careful to keep her voice low and smooth, “this is Sandy over in the personal office. I’m sorry to bother you, but the Congressman wanted to take a look at some of Matthew’s project books, just to make sure he’s up to speed for Conference…”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Dinah blurted.

“Pardon?”

“It’s just… the information in there… It’s not smart to let that wander outside the office.”

Harris had warned her this might happen. That was why he gave her the ultimate comeback.

“The Congressman wants them,” Viv insisted.

There was a short pause on the other line. “I’ll get them ready,” Dinah eventually said.

Over Viv’s shoulder, the door on her right opened, and the young receptionist reentered the room.

“Great,” Viv stuttered. “I-I’ll send someone down to pick ’em up.”

Hanging up the phone, Viv turned back to the main reception desk. “Oops on me—wrong room,” Viv said to the receptionist as she headed for the door.

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “No harm done.”

Refusing to wait for the elevator, Viv ran down the four flights of stairs, eventually jumping down the last two steps and landing with a smack against the polished floor in the basement of the Rayburn Building. On average, a Senate page walked seven miles of hallway each day, picking up and delivering packages. On a typical day, those seven miles could take them from the hearing room where Nixon was impeached during Watergate, past the old Supreme Court chamber, where the Court first decided the Dred Scott case, to the west front of the Capitol, where every new President takes the oath of office, to the center of the enormous rotunda—underneath the vaulted majesty of the Capitol dome—where the bodies of both Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy once lay in state. Viv saw it every single day. But she hadn’t been this excited since her first day on the job.

Still unsure if it was thrill or fear, she didn’t let it slow her down. As her heart jabbed against her chest and she whipped around the corner of the ghostly white hallway, Viv Parker was done shuffling mail and finally doing what the page program had originally promised—making an actual difference in someone’s life.

Sliding to a stop in front of room B-308, she felt more than just her momentum come to a halt. This was still Matthew’s office—and if she wasn’t careful, she’d never be able to pull it off. As she reached out to grab the doorknob, she checked the hall, just as Harris had instructed. On her left, the door to a utility closet peeked open, but as far as she could tell, no one was inside. On her right, the hallway was empty.

Holding her breath, she twisted the brass knob, surprised by how cold it was. As she shoved her weight against the door, the first thing she heard was the ringing phone—on her left, past the Sioux quilt. Again, just like Harris said.

Following the ring, beyond the overflowing In and Out boxes on the edge of the desk, Viv turned the corner and was hit with a sudden sense of relief when she realized that the receptionist was black. Without a word, Roxanne glanced up at Viv, studied her ID, and gave her a slight, unmistakable nod. Viv had been on the receiving end of that one at least a dozen times before. From the cafeteria ladies… from one of the elevator operators… even from Congresswoman Peters.

“Whatcha need, doll?” Roxanne asked with a warm smile.

“Just here to pick up some briefing books.” When Harris first told Viv about this, she was worried that someone would wonder why a Senate page was making a pickup in the House. Roxanne didn’t even take a second glance. Forget what it says on the nametag—even to receptionists, a page is a page.

“Is Dinah…?”

“Right through the door,” Roxanne said, pointing Viv toward the back.

Viv headed for the door, and Roxanne turned back to the current vote on C-SPAN. Viv couldn’t help but grin. On Capitol Hill, even the support staff were political junkies.

Picking up speed, Viv rushed forward and pushed her way inside.

“… so where are we now?” a male voice asked.

“I told you, we’re working on it,” Dinah replied. “He’s only been gone for two—”

The door swung into the wall, and Dinah cut herself off, abruptly turning toward Viv.

“Sorry,” Viv offered.

“Can I help you?” Dinah barked.

Before Viv could answer, the man in front of Dinah’s desk turned around, following the sound. Viv looked him straight in the eye, but something was off. He stared too high, like he was…

Viv spotted the white cane as the man rubbed his thumb against the handle. That’s why he seemed so familiar… She’d seen him tapping in the hallway, outside the Senate Chamber during votes.

“I said, can I help you?” Dinah repeated.

“Yeah,” Viv stuttered, pretending to study the stuffed ferret in the bookcase. “I was just… that ferret…”

“You here for the briefing books?” Dinah interrupted.

“I’m here for the briefing books.”

“On the chair,” Dinah said, pointing a finger toward the desk across from her own.

As quickly as she could, Viv wove across the carpet and slipped behind the desk, where she saw two enormous three-ring notebooks sitting in the chair. The spine of one was marked A–L; the other was M–Z. Pulling the chair out to lift the books, Viv noticed a pile of three picture frames stacked faceup on the center of the desk. Like someone was packing up… or someone was being packed up. The computer on the desk was off, even though it was the middle of the day. The diplomas that were once on the back wall were now leaning against the floor. Time froze as she bent toward the chair and her ID smacked against the edge of the desk.

She took another glance at the top photo, where a man with sandy-blond hair was standing in front of a sapphire blue lake. He was tall, with a thin neck that made him extra gawky. More noticeably, he stood so far to the left, he was almost out of the frame. As his open hand motioned to the lake, Matthew Mercer made it perfectly clear who he thought was the real star of the show. The smile on his face was pure pride. Viv had never met this man, but once she saw his photo, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Behind her, she felt a strong hand on her shoulder. “You okay?” Barry asked. “Need any help?”

Jerking away, Viv yanked the notebooks from the chair and stumbled around the other side of the desk, acting like the weight of the books was keeping her off balance. Within seconds, she steadied herself and took a last look at Matthew’s desk.

“Sorry about your friend,” she said.

“Thanks,” Dinah and Barry said simultaneously. Forcing an awkward grin, Viv speed-walked to the door. Barry didn’t move, but his cloudy blue eyes followed her movements the entire way.

“Just make sure we get them back,” Dinah called out, readjusting her fanny pack. As Matthew’s office mate, she’d sat next to him for almost two years, but she was still head clerk for the committee. Those books were vital business.

“Will do,” Viv said. “Soon as the Congressman’s done, they’re all yours.”

22

WHAT ABOUT HIS HOUSE?” Sauls’s voice squawked through the cell phone.

“He’s got a loft on the outskirts of Adams Morgan,” Janos said, keeping his voice down as he turned the corner of the long, pristine marble hallway in the Russell Senate Office Building. He wasn’t running, but his pace was fast. Determined. Just like everyone around him. That was always the best way to disappear. “He doesn’t own the place, though—or much of anything else. No car, no stocks, nothing left in his bank account. I’m guessing he’s still paying off loans. Otherwise, he’s got nothing permanent.”

“Have you been to his place yet?”

“What do you think?” Janos shot back.

“So I take it he wasn’t there?”

Janos didn’t answer. He hated stupid questions. “Anything else you want to know?” he asked.

“Family and friends?”

“The boy’s smart.”

“That we know.”

“I don’t think you do. He’s been in Congress ten years. Know how ruthless that makes you? The boy’s a razor—he’s thought it through. Even though he’s well connected, the game alone keeps him from reaching out to coworkers… and after we tagged his buddy at the U.S. Attorney’s… I don’t think Harris gets fooled twice.”

“Bullshit. Everyone gets fooled twice. That’s why they keep reelecting their Presidents.”

Following the room numbers on the wall, Janos was again silent.

“You think I’m wrong?” Sauls asked.

“No,” Janos replied. “No one survives alone. There’s someone out there he trusts.”

“So you can find him?”

Stopping in front of room 427, Janos gripped the doorknob on the twelve-foot mahogany door and gave it a hard twist. “That’s my job,” he said as he clicked the End button on his phone and stuffed it into the pocket of his FBI windbreaker.

Inside, the office was exactly the same as last time he was here. Harris’s desk was untouched behind the glass divider, and Harris’s assistant still sat at the desk out front.

“Agent Graves,” Cheese called out as Janos stepped into Harris’s office. “What can I help you with today?”

23

DURING MY VERY first job interview on the Hill, a burned-out staff director with the worst case of Brillo hair I’d ever seen leaned across his desk and told me that at its core, Congress operated like a small town. Some days it was grumpy; others, it was riled up and ready to pick a fist-fight with the world. As someone who grew up in a small town, the analogy hit home. Indeed, that’s the very reason I’m pacing back and forth across the storage room, waiting for someone to pick up on the other end of the line. As any small-town resident knows, if you want to get at the real secrets of a town, you have to visit the hall of records.

“Legislative Resource Center,” a woman with a matronly voice answers.

“Hi, I’m hoping you can help me out. I’m searching for some information on a lobbyist.”

“Let me transfer you to Gary.”

In small-town talk, the Legislative Resource Center is like sitting on the porch with the grumpy old lady whose house is across from the only motel. It’s not a sexy place to hang out, but when all is done and said, she knows exactly who’s screwing who.

“Gary Naftalis,” a man answers. His voice is dry, showing almost no emotion. “How can I assist?”

“Hey, Gary—I’m calling from Senator Stevens’s office. We’ve got a company that’s been calling us on this bill, and we’re trying to figure out which lobbyists they’re working with. You guys still do that?”

“Only if we want to keep the lobbyists honest, sir,” he laughs to himself.

It’s a bad joke, but a valid point. Every year, over seventeen thousand lobbyists descend on Capitol Hill, each one armed with a tommy gun of asks and special requests. Combine that with the boatloads of bills that’re submitted and voted on every day, and it’s overwhelming. As anyone on the Hill knows, there’s too much work for a staffer to be an expert on it all. So if you need some research? Call the lobbyists. Want some talking points? Call the lobbyists. Confused by what a specific amendment does? Call the lobbyists. It’s like buying drugs. If what they give you is good, you’ll keep coming back. And that’s how influence is peddled. Quietly, quickly, and without leaving fingerprints.

The thing is, right now I need those fingerprints.

If Pasternak was playing the game, other lobbyists played as well. Fortunately, all lobbyists are required to register with the Legislative Resource Center and list the names of their clients, which gives me the chance to see who’s working for Wendell Mining.

“Is it possible to just put in a particular company?” I ask.

“Sure, sir… all you have to do is come in and—”

“Can I ask you a huge favor?” I interrupt. “My Senator’s about to rip my head off and vomit down my windpipe… So if I gave you the name right now, would you mind looking it up for us? It’s just one company, Gary…”

I say his name for the final sell. He pauses, leaving me in silence.

“It’d really save my ass,” I add.

Again he gives me the pause. That’s what I hate about being on the phone…

“What’s the name of the company, sir?”

“Great… that’s great. Wendell Mining,” I tell him. “Wendell Mining.”

I hear the clicking of his keyboard, and I stop my pacing. Staring out below the dust-covered vertical blinds, I have a clear view of the narrow pathway and marble railing that run along the west front of the building. The morning sun’s beating down on the copper roof, but it pales to the heat I’m feeling right now. I wipe a puddle of sweat from the back of my neck and unbutton the top of my shirt. The suit and tie were enough to get me back in the building without a second glance, but if I don’t get some answers soon…

“Sorry,” Gary says. “They’re not coming up.”

“Whattya mean, they’re not coming up? I thought every lobbyist had to disclose their clients…”

“They do. But this time of year… we’re barely halfway through the pile.”

“What pile?”

“The disclosure forms—that the lobbyists fill out. We get over seventeen thousand forms each registration period. Know how long that takes to scan in and update our database?”

“Weeks?”

“Months. The deadline was just a few weeks ago in August, so we’ve still got a ton that aren’t in.”

“So it’s possible there’s a lobbyist working on their issue…”

“This is Congress, sir. Anything’s possible.”

I roll my tongue inside my cheek. I hate government humor.

“They add about seven hundred names to the database each day,” Gary continues. “Best bet is to just give us a call back later in the week, and we can check if it’s in there.”

I remember that this is the second year Wendell Mining made the request. “What about last year?” I ask.

“Like I said, nothing came up—which means they either didn’t have someone, or that person didn’t register.”

That part actually makes sense. When it comes to getting earmarks, the smaller companies try to do it by themselves. Then, when they fail, they get smart and cough up the beans for a pro. If Wendell had someone pulling for them, the name’ll eventually show up in this database. “Listen, I appreciate th—”

There’s a loud knock on the door. I go silent.

“Sir, are you there?” Gary asks through the receiver.

The person knocks again. This time to the tune of shave-and-a-haircut.

“It’s me, you shut-in!” Viv calls out. “Open up!”

I leap for the door and undo the lock. The phone cord is pulled so far, it knocks over the stack of keyboards, which go crashing to the floor as the door swings open.

“Mission accomplished, Mr. Bond. What’s next?” Viv sings, cradling the two notebooks as if she were still in high school. That’s when it hits me. She is still in high school. Sliding inside, she whips past me with a frenetic new bounce in her step. I’ve seen the same thing on staffers the first day they get on the Senate Floor. Power rush.

Gary’s voice crackles through the receiver. “Sir, are you—?”

“I’m here… sorry,” I say, turning back to the phone. “Thanks for the help—I’ll give you a call next week.”

As I hang up, Viv dumps the notebooks across the desk. I was wrong before. I thought she was the girl who sits silently in the back of the class—and while that part’s true, I’m quickly starting to realize that she’s also the girl who, when she gets around people she knows, never shuts up.

“I guess you didn’t have any problems,” I say.

“You should’ve seen it! I was unstoppable—I’m telling you, it was like being in the Matrix. They’re all standing there dumbfounded, then I weave around in super-slow-mo… dodging their bullets… working my voodoo… Oh, they didn’t know what hit ’em!”

The jokes are coming too fast. I know a defense mechanism when I see one. She’s afraid. Even if she doesn’t know it.

“Viv…”

“You woulda been proud of me, Harris…”

“Did Dinah say anything?”

“You kidding? She was blinder than the blind guy…”

“The blind guy?”

“All I need now is a code name…”

“Barry was there?”

“… something cool, too—like Senate Grrl…”

“Viv…”

“… or Black Cat…”

“Viv!”

“… or… or Sweet Mocha. Howbout that? Sweet Mocha. Ooh, yeah, let’s get down to Viv-ness!”

“Dammit, Viv, shut up already!”

She stops midsyllable.

“You sure it was Barry?” I ask.

“I don’t know his name. He’s a blind guy with a cane and cloudy eyes…”

“What’d he say?”

“Nothing—though he kept following me as I walked. I can’t… he was slightly off… but it’s like he was trying to prove—not that it matters—but trying to prove he wasn’t that blind, y’know?”

I lunge for the phone and dial his cell. No. I hang up and start again. Go through the operator. Especially now.

Five digits later, the Capitol operator transfers me to Matthew’s old office.

“Interior,” Roxanne answers.

“Hey, Roxanne, it’s Harris.”

“Harris… how are you?”

“Fine. Can you—”

“Y’know you’re in my prayers, sweetie. Everything with Matthew…”

“No… of course. Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s kind of an emergency. Is Barry still floating around back there?”

Viv waves for my attention, slowly moving toward the door. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers. “Just one more stop…”

“Wait,” I call out.

She doesn’t listen. She’s having too much fun to sit around for a scolding.

“Viv!”

The door slams, and she’s gone.

“Harris?” a voice asks in my ear. I’d know it anywhere. Barry.

24

HOW ARE YOU? You okay?” Barry asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I shoot back.

“With Matthew… I just figured… Where’re you calling from anyway?”

It’s the third question out of his mouth. I’m surprised it wasn’t the first.

“I’m home,” I tell him. “I just needed some time to—I just wanted to take some time.”

“I left you four messages.”

“I know… and I appreciate it—I just needed the time.”

“No, I completely understand.”

He doesn’t buy it for a second. But not because of what I said.

A few years back, some coworkers threw a surprise birthday party for Ilana Berger, press secretary for Senator Conroy. As old friends of Ilana from college, Matthew, Barry, and I were all invited, along with everyone in the Senator’s office, and seemingly everyone else on the Hill. Ilana’s friends wanted an event. Somehow, though, Barry’s invitation went to the wrong address. Forever worried about being left out, Barry was crushed. When we told him it must’ve been a mistake, he wouldn’t believe it. When we told him to call the party’s hosts, he refused. And when we called the hosts, who felt terrible that the invitation didn’t get there and immediately sent out a new one, Barry saw it as a pity fix. It’s always been Barry’s greatest flaw—he can walk down a crowded street completely unaided, but when it comes to personal interactions, the only thing he ever sees is himself sitting alone in the dark.

Of course, when it comes to Hill gossip, his radar’s still better than most.

“So I assume you heard about Pasternak?” he asks.

I stay quiet. He’s not the only one with radar. There’s a slight rise in his pitch. He’s got something to tell.

“Doctors said it was a heart attack. Can you believe it? Guy runs five miles every morning and wham—it stops pumping in a… in a heartbeat. Carol is heartbroken… his whole family… it’s like a bomb went off. If you gave them a call… they could really use it, Harris.”

I wait for him to get every last word out. “Can I ask you a question?” I finally say. “Do you have a dog in this race?”

“What?”

“Wendell Mining… the request Matthew was working on… Are you lobbying it?”

“Of course not. You know I don’t do that…”

“I don’t know anything, Barry.”

He offers a playful laugh. I don’t laugh back.

“Let me say it again for you, Harris—I’ve never once worked on Matthew’s issues.”

“Then what’re you doing in his office?!”

“Harris…”

“Don’t Harris me!”

“I know you’ve had two huge losses this week—”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Barry? Stop with the mental massage and answer the fucking question!”

There’s a long pause on the other line. He’s either panicking or in shock. I need to know which.

“Harris,” he eventually begins, his voice teetering on the first syllable. “I-I’ve been here ten years… these are my friends… this is my family, Harris…” As he says the words, I close my eyes and fight the swell of tears. “We lost Matthew. C’mon, Harris. This is Matthew…”

If he’s yanking on my heartstrings, I’ll kill him for this.

“Listen to me,” he pleads. “This isn’t the time to zip yourself in a cocoon.”

“Barry…”

“I want to come see you,” he insists. “Just tell me where you really are.”

My eyes pop open, staring down at the phone. When Pasternak first hired me all those years ago, he told me a good lobbyist is one who, if you’re sitting next to him on an airplane and his knee touches yours, it’s not uncomfortable. Asking where I am, Barry’s officially uncomfortable.

“I gotta run,” I tell him. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Harris, don’t…”

“Good-bye, Barry.”

Slamming the phone in its cradle, I once again turn toward the window and study the sunlight as it ricochets off the roofline. Matthew always warned me about competitive friendships. I can’t argue with him anymore.

25

TOWERING OVER CHEESE’S desk, Janos carefully took a slight step back and painted on a semifriendly grin. From the anxious look on Harris’s assistant’s face, the FBI windbreaker was already more than enough. As Janos well knew, if you squeeze the egg too hard, it shatters.

“You think he’s okay?” Janos asked in his best concerned tone.

“He sounded okay in his message,” Cheese replied. “More tired than anything else. He’s had a rough week, y’know, which is obviously why he’s taking the week off.”

“So he called this morning?”

“Actually, I think it was late last night. Now tell me again why you need to speak to him.”

“We’re just following up on Matthew Mercer’s death. The accident happened on federal land, so they wanted us to talk to a few of his friends.” Reading the look on Cheese’s face, Janos added, “Don’t worry… it’s just standard follow-up…”

The front door to the office opened, and a young black girl in a navy suit stuck her head inside. “Senate page,” Viv announced, balancing three small red, white, and blue boxes. “Flag delivery?” she said.

“The who what?” Cheese asked.

“Flags,” she repeated, checking out both Cheese and Janos. “American flags… y’know, the ones they fly over the Capitol, then sell to people just because it went up a flagpole on the roof… Anyway, I’ve got three here for a…” She read the words from the top box, “… for someone named Harris Sandler.”

“You can just leave ’em here,” Cheese said, pointing to his own desk.

“And mess up your stuff?” Viv asked. She motioned through the glass partition at Harris’s messy work space. “That your boss’s pigpen?” Before Cheese could answer, Viv headed through the door in the partition. “He wants the flags… let him deal with them.”

“See, now that’s what we gotta see more of,” Cheese called out, slapping his own chest. “Respect for the Kid!”

Eyeing the girl carefully, Janos watched as Viv approached Harris’s desk. She had her back to him, and her body blocked most of what she was doing, but from what Janos could tell, it was just a routine drop-off. Without a word, she cleared a space for the flag boxes, set them on Harris’s desk, and in one smooth motion, spun back toward the rest of the office. Viv jumped when she saw Janos staring right at her. There it was. Contact.

“H-Hey,” she said with a smile as their eyes locked. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” Janos replied dryly. “Everything’s perfect.”

“So can you fly anything over the Capitol?” Cheese asked. “Socks? Underwear? I’ve got this vintage Barney Miller T-shirt that would love to go for a whirl.”

“Who’s Barney Miller?” Viv asked.

Cheese grabbed his chest in mock pain. “Do you have any idea how much that physically hurt? I’m slayed. Seriously. I’m bleeding inside.”

“Sorry,” Viv laughed, moving toward the door.

Janos looked back at Harris’s desk, where the flag boxes were neatly stacked in place. Even then, he didn’t think much of it. But as he turned back to Viv—as he listened to her giggle and as he watched her bounce toward the door—he saw the last passing glance that she aimed his way. Then he realized it wasn’t at him. It was at his windbreaker. FBI.

The door slammed, and Viv was gone.

“So what were we singing about again?” Cheese asked.

Still locked on the door, Janos didn’t answer. It wasn’t that unusual for someone to check out an FBI jacket… but add that to the way she walked in… going straight for Harris’s office…

“I know that look,” Cheese teased. “You’re rethinking that underwear-over-the-Capitol thing, aren’t you?”

“Have you ever seen her before?” Janos blurted.

“The page? No, not that I—”

“I have to go,” Janos said as he calmly turned toward the door.

“Just let me know if you need more help,” Cheese called out, but Janos was already on his way—out the door and up the hallway. She couldn’t have gotten…

There, Janos thought, smiling to himself.

Reaching into the pocket of his windbreaker, Janos felt his way along the small black box and flipped the switch. The electrical hum rumbled quietly in his hand.

26

FLIPPING OPEN THE first of the two notebooks, I thumb to the Gs and continue to turn the pages until I finally reach the tab marked Grayson. Alphabetically organized by Member name, the subsections of the book have an in-depth analysis of every project that a Congressman asks for—including the transfer of a gold mine to a company called Wendell Mining.

Skimming past the original request that Grayson’s office submitted, I lick my finger and flip straight to the analysis. But as I speed-read the next three pages, I hear a familiar voice in my head. Oh, jeez. It’s unmistakable… the rambling at the beginning of a new thought… his overuse of the word specifically… even the way he rants a bit at the end. Without a doubt, these three pages were written by Matthew. It’s like he’s sitting right here next to me.

To his credit, the analysis is the same as what he originally said. The Homestead gold mine is one of the oldest in South Dakota, and both the town and state would benefit if Wendell Mining got the land and took over the mine. To drive the point home, there are three photocopied letters clipped into the notebook: one from the Bureau of Land Management, one from the Wendell Mining CEO, and a final gushing recommendation from the mayor of Leed, South Dakota, the town where the mine is located. Three letters. Three letterheads. Three new phone numbers to call.

The first call to BLM gets me voice mail. Same with the call to the CEO. That leaves only the mayor. Fine by me. I’m better with politicians any day.

Dialing the number, I let the phone ring in my ear and glance down at my watch. Viv should be back any…

“L-and-L Luncheonette,” a man with a cigarette-burned voice and Hollywood-cowboy drawl answers. “What c’n I do?”

“I’m sorry,” I stutter, glancing down at the bottom of the letter. “I was looking for Mayor Regan’s office.”

“And who should I say is calling?” the man asks. “Andy Defresne,” I say. “From the House of Representatives. In Washington, D.C.”

“Well, why didn’t you say?” the man adds with a throaty laugh. “This is Mayor Regan.”

I pause, suddenly thinking of my dad’s barbershop.

“Not used to small towns, are ya?” the mayor laughs.

“Actually, I am.”

“From one?”

“Born and raised.”

“Well, we’re smaller,” he teases. “Guaranteed or your money back.”

God, he reminds me of home.

“Now, what c’n I do?” he asks.

“To be honest—”

“Wouldn’t expect anything but,” he interrupts, laughing wildly.

He also reminds me why I left.

“I just had a quick question about the gold mine that’s—”

“The Homestead.”

“Exactly. The Homestead,” I say, nervously tapping a finger against one of the spare keyboards in the room. “So, getting back… I’m working on Congressman Grayson’s request for the land sale…”

“Oh, don’t everybody love a fight.”

“Some do,” I play along. “Personally, I’m just trying to make sure we do the right thing and put local interests first.” He’s silent at that, enjoying the sudden attention. “Anyway, as we push for the request, we’re trying to think who else we should go to for support, so would you mind walking me through how the town might benefit from the sale of the mine taking place? Or better yet, is there anyone in particular who’s excited by the deal going through?”

As he’s done twice before, the mayor laughs out loud. “Son, to be honest, you got as much chance sucking bricks through a hose as you do finding someone who’ll benefit from this one.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“And maybe I don’t, either,” the mayor admits. “But if I were putting up my money for a gold mine, I’d at least want one that had some gold.”

My finger stops tapping against the keyboard. “Excuse me?”

“The Homestead mine. Place is empty.”

“You sure about that?”

“Son, the Homestead may’ve broke ground in 1876, but the last ounce of gold was mined almost twenty years ago. Since then, seven different companies have tried to prove everyone wrong, and the last one went bust so ugly, they took most of the town with ’em. That’s why the land’s been sitting with the government. There used to be nine thousand of us here in town. Now we’re a hundred and fifty-seven. You don’t need an abacus to do that math.”

As he says the words, the storage room is dead silent, but I can barely hear myself think. “So you’re telling me there’s no gold in that mine?”

“Not for twenty years,” he repeats.

I nod even though he can’t see me. It doesn’t make any sense. “I’m sorry, Mr. Mayor—maybe I’m just dense, but if there’s no chance of finding gold, then why’d you write that letter?”

“What letter?”

My eyes drop to the desk, where Matthew’s old notebook holds a letter endorsing the land transfer to Wendell Mining. It’s signed by the mayor of Leed, South Dakota.

“You are Mayor Tom Regan, right?”

“Yep. Only one.”

I study the signature at the bottom of the letter. Then I reread it again. There’s a slight smudge on the R in Regan that makes it look just messy enough that it’d never get a second glance. And right there, for the first time since this all started, I start to see the ripple in the mirror.

“You still there, son?” the mayor asks.

“Yeah… no… I’m here,” I say. “I just… Wendell Mining…”

“Let me tell you about Wendell Mining. When they first came sniffing here, I personally called MSHA to—”

“Em-sha?”

“Mine Safety and Health Administration—the safety boys. When you’re mayor, you gotta know who’s coming to your town. So when I talked to my buddy there, he said these guys at Wendell may’ve bought the original mining claims to the land, and filed all the right paperwork, and even put enough money in someone’s pocket to get a favorable mineral report—but so help me, when we looked up their track record, these boys’ve never operated a single mine in their lives.”

A sharp pain in my stomach burns, and the fire quickly spreads. “You sure about that?”

“Son, did Elvis love bacon? I’ve seen this one a hundred and nineteen times before. A company like Wendell has a little bit of money, and a lotta bit of greed. If anyone would bother to ask me my opinion, I’d tell ’em that the last thing we need around here is to get everyone’s hopes up and then see ’em squashed once again. You know how it is in a small town… when those trucks showed up—”

“Trucks?” I interrupt.

“The ones that showed up last month. Isn’t that what you’re calling about?”

“Y-Yeah. Of course.” Matthew transferred the gold mine barely three days ago. Why were trucks there a month ago? “So they’re already mining?” I ask, completely confused.

“God knows what they’re doing… I went up there myself—y’know, just to make sure they’re doing things right with the union… Let me tell you right now, they don’t have a single piece of mining equipment up there. Not even a pelican pick. And when I asked them about it… let me just say… crickets aren’t as jumpy. I mean, those boys shooed me away like a fly on the wrong end of a horse.”

My hand holds tight to the receiver. “You think they’re doing something other than mining?”

“I don’t know what they’re doing, but if it were up to me—” He cuts himself off. “Son, can you hold on one second?” Before I can answer, I hear him in the background. “Aunt Mollie,” he calls out, suddenly excited. “What can I get you, dear?”

“Just the regular,” a woman with the sweetest hometown twang replies. “No jelly on the toast.”

Behind me, someone pounds shave-and-a-haircut against the door. “It’s me,” Viv calls out. I stretch the phone cord and undo the lock.

Viv steps inside, but the tap dance in her step is gone.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Did you get the—”

She pulls my electronic organizer from the waist of her pants and tosses it straight at me. “There—you happy?” she asks.

“What happened? Was it not where I said it was?”

“I saw an FBI agent in your office,” she blurts.

“What?”

“He was there—talking to your assistant.”

I slam down the phone on the mayor. “What’d he look like?”

“I don’t know…”

“No—forget I don’t know. What’d he look like?” I insist.

She reads my panic easily but, unlike last time, doesn’t brush it off. “I didn’t see him that long… buzzed salt-and-pepper hair… I guess a creepy smile… and eyes that kinda, well… kinda look like a hound dog if that makes any sense…”

My throat locks up, and my eyes flash over to the door. More specifically, the doorknob. It’s unlocked.

I dart full speed at the door, ready to twist the lock shut. But just as I’m about to grab it, the door bursts toward me, slamming into my shoulder. Viv screams, and a thick hand slides through the crack.

27

THE DOOR’S BARELY open an inch, but Janos already has his hand inside. Viv’s still screaming, and I’m still moving. Lucky for me, momentum’s on my side.

My full weight collides with the door, pinching Janos’s fingers in the doorjamb. I expect him to yell as he yanks his hand free. He barely grunts. Viv also goes dead silent, and I look over to make sure she’s okay. She’s standing there, eyes closed and hands clasped around her ID. Praying.

As the door slams shut, I dive for the lock and click it into place. The door thunders as Janos rams himself against it. The hinges shudder. We’re not gonna last long.

“Window!” I say, turning back toward Viv, who finally looks up. She’s frozen in shock. Her eyes look like they’re about to explode. I grab her hand and twirl her toward the small window that’s high up on the wall. It’s got two panes that swing outward like shutters.

There’s another thunderclap against the door.

Viv turns and panics. “He’s—”

“Just go!” I shout, pulling one of the spare chairs toward the windowsill.

Hopping up on the chair, Viv can’t stop her hands from shaking as she tries to unhook the window latch.

“Hurry!” I beg as the door once again rumbles.

She pounds the windows, but they don’t move. “Harder!” I tell her.

She hits them again. She’s not a small girl—the impact’s tremendous.

“I think they’re painted shut!”

“Here, let me—”

With the base of her palm, Viv gives it one final shove, and the left window pops open, swinging out toward the rooftop. Her hands lock on the windowsill, and I give her a boost up. There’s a loud bang against the front door. The lock buckles. Two screws look like they’re about to come loose.

Viv turns toward the sound.

“Don’t look!” I tell her.

She’s already halfway out the window. I grab her ankles and give her one final push.

Another screw flies from the lock and clinks against the floor. We’re out of time. I hop on the chair just as Viv crashes against the balcony outside. Behind me, I spot Matthew’s notebooks sitting on the nearby table. Janos is one good kick away. I’ll never make it…

I don’t care. I need that info. Leaping off the chair, I scramble back toward the desk, grab the Grayson section, and tear the pages from the three-ring binder.

The door flies open and crashes to the ground. I don’t even bother to look back. In one mad dash, I leap on the chair and dive toward the open window. My pelvis crashes against the windowsill, but it’s enough to get me through. Teetering forward, I tumble outside, blinded by the sun as I hit the floor of the balcony.

“Which way?” Viv asks, slamming the window shut as I climb to my feet.

Rolling up the stack of papers and shoving them in my front pocket, I grab Viv’s wrist and tug her to the left, along the three-foot-wide pathway just outside the window.

Overlooking the Washington Monument, we’re on the long balcony outside the Senate wing. Unlike the enormous Capitol dome, which rises up in front of us, the path on this side of the building is flat.

I glance over my shoulder just as the window bursts open behind us. The glass shatters as it swings into the white wall of the building. As Janos sticks his head out, it only makes us run harder. We’re moving so fast, the intricate marble railing on my right starts to blur. To my surprise, Viv’s already a few steps ahead of me.

The sun beats down, reflecting off the white railing so brightly, I have to squint to see. Good thing I know where I’m going. Up ahead, the pathway forks as we approach the base of the Capitol dome. We can go straight and follow the pathway, or make a sharp left into a nook around the corner. Last time we did this, Janos caught me off guard. This time, we’re on my turf.

“Left,” I say, yanking the shoulder of Viv’s suit. As I tug her around the corner, there’s a rusted metal staircase dead ahead. It leads up to a catwalk that’ll take us up to the roof, directly on top of the room we were just in. “Keep going,” I say, pointing her toward the stairs.

Viv keeps running. I stay where I am. By my feet, a trio of thin steel wires runs along the floor of the balcony, just outside the windows. During the winter, the maintenance division sends a small electric current through the wiring to melt the snow and prevent the ice from piling up. During the rest of the year, the wires just sit there, useless. Until now. Squatting down, I press my knuckles against the floor and grab the wires. As Janos runs, I hear his shoes pounding against the roof.

“He’s right around the corner!” Viv yells from her perch on the catwalk.

That’s what I’m counting on. Tugging up like I’m curling a barbell, I pull the wires as hard as I can. The staples that hold them in place pop through the air. The metal wiring goes taut, rising a few inches from the ground. Perfect ankle height.

Just as Janos turns the corner, his legs slam into the wiring. At his speed, the thin metal slices into his shins. For the first time, he yells out in pain. It’s not much more than a muted roar, but I’ll take it. Tumbling forward, he skids face first against the ground. The sound alone is worth it.

Before he can get up, I leap toward him, gripping him by the back of his head and pressing his face against the burning-hot green copper floor. As his cheek hits, he finally screams—a guttural rumble that vibrates against my chest. It’s like trying to pin a bull. Even as I grab the back of his neck, he’s already on his knees, climbing to his feet. Like a trapped panther, he lashes out, swiping a meaty paw at my face. I duck back, and his knuckles barely connect with a spot below my shoulder, just under my armpit. It doesn’t hurt—but as my entire right arm tingles and goes numb, I realize that’s where he was aiming all along.

“Harris, run!” Viv shouts from the catwalk.

She’s right about that. I can’t beat him one-on-one. I spin back toward Viv and sprint as fast as I can. My arm’s dead, flapping lifelessly at my side. Behind me, Janos is still on the ground, clawing at the wires. As I race toward the metal staircase that leads up to the roof, a half-dozen more staples pop through the air. He’ll be loose in seconds.

“C’mon!” Viv yells, standing on the edge of the top step and waving me up.

Using my good arm to hold the railing, I scutter up the stairs to the catwalk that zigzags across the roof. From here, with the dome at my back, the flat roof of the Senate wing is spread out in front of me. Most of it’s covered with air ducts, vents, a web of electrical wiring, and a handful of scattered rounded domes that rise like waist-high bubbles from the rooftop. Weaving through all of it, I follow the catwalk as it curves around the edge of the small dome that’s right in front of us.

“You sure you know where you’re—?”

“Here,” I say, cutting to the left, down an offshoot of metal stairs that takes us off the catwalk and back down to a different section of the balcony. Thank God neoclassical architecture is symmetrical. Along the wall on my left, there’s a corresponding window that’ll take us back into the building.

I kick the window frame as hard as I can. The glass shatters, but the frame holds. Pulling some glass out to get a good handhold, I yank as hard as I can. I can hear the pounding of Janos’s feet up on the catwalk.

“Pull harder!” Viv yells.

The wood splinters in my hands, and the window flies open, swinging toward me. The pounding’s getting closer.

“Go…” I say, helping Viv slide inside. I’m right behind her, landing hard as I hit the gray-carpeted floor. I’m in someone’s office.

A stocky coworker comes rushing to the door. “You can’t be in here—”

Viv shoves him aside, and I fall in right behind her. As a page, Viv knows the inside of this place as well as anyone. And the way she’s running—sharp turns without a pause—she’s not trailing anymore. She’s leading.

We cut through the main welcoming area of the Senate curator’s office and fly down a curving narrow staircase that echoes as we run. Trying to stay out of sight, we jump down the last three steps and duck out on the third floor of the Capitol. The closed door in front of us is marked Senate Chaplain. Not a bad place to hide. Viv tries the doorknob.

“It’s locked,” she says.

“So much for your prayers.”

“Don’t say that,” she scolds.

There’s a loud thud from above. We both look up just in time to see Janos at the top of the staircase. The left side of his face is bright red, but he never says a word.

Viv jackrabbits to her left, up the hallway and toward another flight of stairs. I head for the elevator, which is a bit further, just around the corner.

“Elevator’s faster…” I tell her.

“Only if it’s—”

I hit the call button and hear a high-pitched ping. Viv quickly catches up. As the doors slide open, we hear Janos lumbering down the stairs. Shoving Viv in the elevator, I follow her inside, frantically trying to pull the door shut.

Viv jabs wildly at the Door Close button. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…”

I wedge my fingers in the door’s metal molding and pull as hard as I can, trying to tug the door shut. Viv ducks under me and does the same. Janos is a few feet away. I see the tips of his outstretched fingers.

“Get ready to pull the alarm!” I shout at Viv.

Janos lunges forward, and our eyes lock. He jabs his hand toward us just as the door clicks, thunks, and slides shut.

The elevator rumbles downward, and I can barely catch my breath.

“My… my hand…” Viv whispers, picking something from her palm, which is bright red with blood. She pulls out a piece of glass from one of the broken windows.

“You okay?” I ask, reaching out.

Focused on her palm, she doesn’t answer. I’m not even sure she hears the question. Her hand shakes uncontrollably as she stares down at the blood. She’s in shock. But she’s still sharp enough to know she’s got far more important things to worry about. She grips her wrist to stop the shaking. “Why’s the FBI chasing you?” she asks, her voice cracking.

“He’s not FBI.”

“Then who the hell is he?”

This isn’t the time for an answer. “Just get ready to run,” I tell her.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You think he’s not sprinting down the stairs right now?” She shakes her head, trying to look confident, but I can hear the panic in her voice. “It’s not a continuous staircase—he’ll have to stop and cross the hallway at two of the landings.”

“Only at one,” I correct her.

“Yeah, but… he still has to stop at each floor to make sure we didn’t get out.” She’s trying hard to convince herself, but even she’s not buying it. “There’s no way he’ll beat us down… right?”

The elevator bobs to a stop in the basement, and the door slowly slides open. Sprinting out, I barely get two steps before I hear a loud click-clack on the metal treads of the staircase that rises directly in front of us. I crane my neck up just in time to see Janos whipping around the corner of the top step. He’s still silent, but the smallest of grins spreads across his lips.

Son of a bitch.

Viv takes off to the left, and I’m again right behind her. Janos storms down the stairs. We’ve got nothing more than a thirty-step head start. Viv makes a sharp left so we’re not in his direct line of sight, then a quick right. Down here, the basement’s got low ceilings and narrow halls. We’re like rats in a maze, twisting and turning as the cat licks his chops behind us.

Dead ahead, the long hallway widens. At the end, a bright shot of sunlight glows through the glass in the double doors. There’s our way out. The west exit—the door the President uses as he steps out for his inauguration. From here, it’s a straight shot.

Viv looks back for a half second. “You know what’s…”

I nod. She understands.

Pouring on the speed, Viv clenches her fists and heads for the light. A few drops of blood drip to the floor.

Behind us, Janos is galloping like a racehorse, slowly closing the gap. I can hear him breathing—the closer he gets, the louder it grows. We all dig in hard, and the pounding of our shoes echoes through the hallway. I’m neck and neck with Viv, who’s slowly losing steam. She’s now a half step behind. C’mon, Viv… Only a few feet to go. I study her face. Wide eyes. Mouth open. I’ve seen that look on people at mile twenty-five in the marathon. She’s not gonna make it. Sensing her pain, Janos shifts a bit to the left. Right behind Viv. He’s so close, I can almost smell him. “Viv…!” I shout.

Janos reaches out, raising his hand for the final grab. He lunges forward. The door’s straight ahead. But just as he swipes down, I grip Viv’s shoulder and make a sharp right, whipping us both around the corner, away from the door.

Janos skids across the polished floor, struggling to follow us through the turn. It’s too late. By the time he’s back in pursuit, Viv and I shove our way through a set of black vinyl double doors that look like they lead to a restaurant kitchen.

But as the doors swing shut, we find fourteen armed policemen milling around the hallway. The office on our right is the internal headquarters of the Capitol Police.

Viv’s already got her mouth open. “There’s a guy back there who’s trying to—”

I shoot her a look, shaking my head. If she blows the whistle on Janos, he’ll blow the whistle on me—and right now, I can’t afford to be taken in. From the confused look on her face, Viv doesn’t understand, but it’s still enough to let me take the lead.

“There’s a guy back there who’s muttering to himself,” I say to the three nearest officers. “He started following us for no reason, saying we were the enemy.”

“I think he snuck off his tour,” Viv adds, knowing just how to rile these guys. Pointing to the ID badge around her neck, she says, “He doesn’t have an ID.”

Janos shoves open the black vinyl doors. Three Capitol policemen move in.

“Can I help you with something?” one of them asks. He’s unimpressed with the FBI windbreaker, which he knows can be bought in the gift shop.

Before Janos can even make up a lame excuse, Viv and I continue further up the hallway that’s spread out in front of us.

“Stop them!” Janos shouts, taking off after us.

The first officer grabs him by the windbreaker, pulling him back.

“What’re you doing?” Janos roars.

“My job,” the officer says. “Now let’s see some ID.”

Twisting and turning back through the maze of the basement, we eventually push our way outside on the east front of the Capitol. The sun’s already passed to the other side of the building, but darkness is still an hour or so away. Hurtling past the groups of tourists taking pictures in front of the dome, we race toward First Street, hoping the Capitol Police give us enough of a head start. The white marble pillars of the Supreme Court are directly across the street, but I’m too busy looking for a cab.

“Taxi!” Viv and I shout simultaneously as one slows down.

We both slide inside, locking our respective doors. Back by the Capitol, Janos is nowhere in sight. For now. “I think we’re okay,” I say, ducking down in my seat and searching the crowds.

Next to me, Viv doesn’t bother to look outside. She’s too busy glaring directly at me. Her brown eyes burn—part of it’s fear, but now… part of it’s anger.

“You lied…” she finally says.

“Viv, before you—”

“I’m not a moron, y’know,” she adds, still catching her breath. “Now what the hell is going on?”

28

RIDING THE ESCALATOR down to the lower floors of the Smithsonian’s Museum of American History, I keep my eyes on the crowds and my hands on Viv’s shoulders. It’s still the best way to keep her calm. She’s one step down but twice as nervous. After what happened in the Capitol, she doesn’t trust anyone—including me—which is why she jerks her shoulder and shoos me away.

Without a doubt, the museum’s not the ideal place to change her mind, but it is enough of a public place to make it an unlikely spot for Janos to start hunting. As we continue our descent, Viv’s gaze flits around the room, searching the face of every person she can find. I’m guessing it’s nothing new. She said she was one of two black girls in an otherwise white school. In the Senate, she’s the only black page they’ve got. No doubt, she’s an outsider on a daily basis. But never like this. Unfolding the museum map I got from the info desk, I block us from the crowd. If we want to blend in as tourists, we have to play the part.

“Want some ice cream?” I ask as we step off the escalator and spot the old-fashioned ice-cream parlor along the wall.

Viv hammers me with a look I usually see only on the press corps. “Do I look thirteen to you?”

She’s got every right to be pissed. She signed up to do a simple favor. Instead, she spent the past half hour running for her life. For that reason alone, she needs to know what’s really going on.

“I never meant for it to happen like this,” I begin.

“Really?” she asks. She presses her lips together and pierces me with a scowl.

“Viv, when you said you would help…”

“You shouldn’t have let me! I had no idea what I was getting into!”

There’s no arguing with that. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I never thought they’d—”

“I don’t want your apologies, Harris. Just tell me why Matthew was killed.”

I wasn’t sure she knew what it was about. It’s not the first time I underestimated her.

As we walk through an exhibit labeled A Material World, we’re surrounded by glass cases that track America’s manufacturing process. The first case is filled with timber, bricks, slate, and cowhide; the last case features the bright colored plastic of a Rubik’s Cube and a PacMan machine. “This is progress,” a nearby tour guide announces. I look at Viv. Time to make some progress here, too.

It takes me almost fifteen minutes to tell her the truth. About Matthew… and Pasternak… and even about my attempt to go to the Deputy Attorney General. Amazingly, she doesn’t show a hint of reaction—that is, until I tell her what set all the dominos tumbling. The game… and the bet.

Her mouth drops open, and she puts both hands on her head. She’s primed to explode.

“You were betting?” she asks.

“I know it sounds nuts…”

“That’s what you were doing? Gambling on Congress?”

“I swear, it was just a stupid game.”

“Candyland’s a stupid game! Mad Libs is a stupid game! This was real!”

“It was just on the small issues—nothing that ever mattered…”

“It all matters!”

“Viv, please…” I beg, looking around as a few tourists stop and stare.

She lowers her voice, but the anger’s still there. “How could you do that? You told us we should—” She cuts herself off as her voice cracks. “That entire speech you gave… Everything you said was crap.”

Right there, I realize I’ve been reading her wrong. It’s not anger in her voice. It’s disappointment—and as her shoulders sag even lower than usual, it’s already bleeding into sadness. I’ve been on the Hill for a decade, but Viv’s barely been here a month. It took me three years of getting backstabbed to get the look she’s wearing right now. Her eyes sag with a brand new weight. No matter when it happens, idealism always dies hard.

“That’s it—I’m out,” she announces, shoving me aside and rushing past me.

“Where’re you going?”

“To deliver some Senator’s mail… and gossip with friends… and check on our running tally of Senators with bad hair and no rear end—there’re more than you think.”

“Viv, wait,” I call out, chasing after her. I put a hand on her shoulder, and she tries to yank herself free. I hold tight, but unlike before, it doesn’t calm her down.

“Get. Off!” she shouts. With one final shove, she slaps me away. She’s not a small girl. I forget how strong she is.

“Viv, don’t be stupid…” I call out as she storms through the exhibit.

“I’ve already been stupid—you’re my quota for the month!”

“Just wait…”

She doesn’t slow down. Marching through the main section of the exhibit hall, she cuts in front of a couple trying to get their photo taken with Archie Bunker’s chair.

“Viv, please…” I beg, quickly racing after her. “You can’t do this.”

She stops at the ultimatum. “What’d you say?”

“You’re not listening—”

“Don’t you ever tell me what to do.”

“But I—”

“Didn’t you hear what I said?!”

“Viv, they’ll kill you.”

Her finger’s frozen in midair. “What?”

“They’ll kill you. They’ll snap your neck and make it look like you tripped down some stairs. Just like they did with Matthew.” She’s silent as I say the words. “You know I’m right. Now that Janos knows who you are—you saw what he’s like; he doesn’t care if you’re seventeen or seventy. You think he’s just gonna let you go back to refilling Senators’ water glasses?”

She tries to respond, but nothing comes out. Her brow unfurrows, and her hands start to shake. Like before, she starts to pick anxiously at the back of her ID. “I-I need to make a call,” she insists, rushing for the pay phone in the ice cream parlor. I’m a step behind her. She won’t say it, but I see the way she’s clutching her ID. She wants Mom.

“Viv, don’t call her…”

“This isn’t about you, Harris.”

She thinks I’m only looking out for myself. She’s wrong. The guilt’s been swirling through my gut since the moment I first asked her for that one little favor. I was terrified it’d come to this.

“I wish I could take it back… I really do,” I tell her. “But if you’re not careful—”

“I was careful! Remember, I’m not the one who caused this!”

“Please, just stop for a minute,” I beg as she once again takes off. “Janos is probably drilling through your life right now.”

“Maybe he’s not. Ever think of that?”

She’s getting too riled. It breaks my heart to do this, but it’s the only way to keep her safe. As she’s about the enter the ice-cream store, I cut in front of her. “Viv, you make that call and you’re putting your whole family at risk.”

“You don’t know that!”

“I don’t? Out of thirty pages, you’re the only five-foot-ten black girl. He’ll find your name in two seconds. That’s what he does. Now, I know you hate me right now—and you should—but please… just listen… If you go in there and call your parents, that’s two more people Janos has to clean up to make this mess go away.”

That’s all it takes. Her shoulders rise, revealing her full height, while the tears in her eyes give away her age. It’s so easy to forget how young she is.

On my left, I catch our reflection in a nearby exhibit case: me in a black suit, Viv in her navy one. So professional and put together. Behind the glass are Mr. Rogers’s red sweater and an Oscar the Grouch puppet. Oscar’s frozen in his garbage can with his mouth wide open. Following my gaze, Viv stares at the Grouch, whose empty black and white eyes stare hauntingly back.

“I’m sorry, Viv.” It’s the second time I’ve said those words. But this time, she needs them.

“I-I was just doing you a favor,” she stutters, her voice breaking.

“I shouldn’t have asked you, Viv—I never thought…”

“My mom… if she—” She cuts herself off, trying not to think about it. “What about my aunt in Philly? Maybe she can—”

“Don’t put your family at risk.”

“I shouldn’t put them at risk? How could… how could you do this to me?!” She stumbles backward, once again scanning each passing tourist. I thought it was because she was scared, nervous—forever the outsider trying to fit in—but the longer I watch her, the more I realize that’s only part of the picture. People who look for help tend to be the type of people who’re used to getting it. Her hand continues to clutch her ID. Her mom… her dad… her aunt—they’ve been there her whole life, pushing, aiding, cheering. Now they’re gone. And Viv’s feeling it.

She’s not the only one. As she nervously searches the crowd, a sharp, nauseous pain continues to slice through my belly. No matter what else happens, I’ll never forgive myself for hurting her like this.

“Whatta I do now?” she asks.

“It’s okay,” I promise, hoping to soothe. “I have plenty of cash—maybe we can… I can hide you in a hotel.”

“By myself?”

The way she asks the question, I can already tell it’s a bad idea. Especially if she panics and doesn’t stay put. I made her a sitting duck once. I’m not abandoning her and doing it again. “Okay… forget the hotel. What if we—?”

“You wrecked my life,” she blurts.

“Viv…”

“Don’t Viv. You wrecked it, Harris, and then you—oh, God… do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“It was supposed to be one little favor—I swear, if I thought this would happen…”

“Please don’t say that. Don’t say you didn’t know…” She’s absolutely right. I should’ve known—I spend every day calculating political permutations—but when it came to this, the only thing I was worried about was myself.

“Viv, I swear, if I could undo it…”

“But you can’t!”

In the last three minutes, she’s hit all the stages of emotional response: from anger to denial, to despair, to acceptance, and now back to anger. It’s all in reaction to one unchangeable fact: Now that I’ve gotten her involved, Janos isn’t giving up until we’re both dead.

“Viv, I need you to focus—we have to get out of here.”

“… and I made it worse,” she mumbles. “I did this to myself.”

“That’s not true,” I insist. “This has nothing to do with you. I did this. To both of us.”

She’s still in shock, struggling to process everything that’s happened. She looks at me, then down at herself. It’s not just me anymore. We. From here on in, we’re chained at the wrist.

“We should call the police…” she stutters.

“After what happened with Lowell?”

She’s quick enough to see the big picture instantly. If Janos got to the number two person at Justice, all paths to law enforcement take us straight back to him.

“What about going to someone else…? Don’t you have any friends?”

The question backhands me across the face. The two people I’m closest to are already dead, Lowell’s turned, and there’s no way to tell who else Janos has gotten to. All the politicians and staffers I’ve worked with over the years—sure they’re friends, but in this town, well… that doesn’t mean I trust them. “Besides,” I explain, “anyone we talk to—we’re painting a target on their chest. Should we do to someone else what I did to you?”

She stares me down, knowing I’m right. But it doesn’t stop her from searching for a way out.

“What about any of the other pages?” she asks. “Maybe they can tell us who they made drop-offs to… y’know, who else was playing the game.”

“That’s why I wanted the delivery records from the cloakroom. But there’s nothing there from any of the game days.”

“So all of us—all the pages—we were being used without even knowing it?”

“Maybe for the other bets, but not for the gold mine.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“That kid who hit Matthew—Toolie Williams—he’s the one who had your nametag. He was dressed up to look like a page.”

“Why would someone want to look like a page?”

“I’m guessing Janos paid him to do it… and that Janos is acting on behalf of someone else who had a vested interest in the outcome.”

“You think it goes back to the gold mine?”

“Hard to say, but they’re the only ones who benefit.”

“I still don’t understand,” Viv says. “How does Wendell Mining benefit if there’s supposedly no gold in the mine?”

“Or more specifically,” I add, “why does a company that has no mining experience spend two years trying to buy a gold mine with no gold in it?”

We both stare at each other, but Viv quickly looks away. We may be stuck together, but she’s not forgiving me that quickly. More important, I don’t think she wants to know the answer. Too bad for her, that only makes one of us.

I pull the rolled-up pages from Matthew’s briefing book out of my pocket. I can still hear the mayor’s voice in my head. Wendell was already getting to work, but there wasn’t a piece of mining equipment in sight. “So what’re they doing down there?”

“You mean other than mining?”

I shake my head. “The way the mayor said it… I don’t think they’re mining.”

“Then what else do you need a gold mine for?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

She knows what I’m thinking. “Why don’t you just call the mayor back and—”

“And what? Ask him to take a little snoop around and then put his life in danger? Besides, even if he did, would you trust the answer?”

Viv again goes silent. “So what do we do?” she finally asks.

All this time, I’ve been looking for a lead. I reread the name of the town from the sheet of paper in my hands. Leed. Leed, indeed. The only place that has the answer.

Checking the exhibit hall one last time, I take off for the escalator. “Let’s go,” I call out to Viv.

She’s right behind me. She may be mad, but she understands the danger of being by herself. The fear alone sends her from anger back to acceptance, reluctant though it may be. As she falls in next to me, she takes one last look at Oscar the Grouch. “You really think it’s smart to go all the way to South Dakota?”

“You think it’s any safer here?”

She doesn’t answer.

Sure, it’s a gamble—but not nearly as risky as a company betting on a gold mine that has no gold in it, then keeping all the locals away so no one sees what they’re really up to. Even a seventeen-year-old knows something here stinks—and the only way to find out what is by going directly to the source.

29

TWO HOURS LATER, WE’RE in the back of a taxi in Dulles, Virginia. The sign out front is easy to miss, but I’ve been here before. Piedmont-Hawthorne’s Corporate Aviation Terminal.

“Just give me five back,” I say to the cab driver, who’s taken far too many glances at us in his rearview mirror. Maybe it’s our silence… maybe it’s the fact Viv won’t even look at me. Or maybe it’s the fact I just gave him a crappy tip.

“Actually, keep the change,” I tell the cabbie as I paint on a warm grin and force a laugh at the Elliot in the Morning promo that screams from the radio. The cabbie smiles back and counts his money. People are far less likely to remember you when you haven’t pissed them off. “Have a great day,” I add as Viv and I climb outside. He gives us a wave without looking back.

“You sure this is legal?” Viv asks, forever the good girl as she follows me toward the squatty modern building.

“I didn’t say anything about legal—all I’m looking for is smart.”

“And this is smart?”

“You’d rather fly commercial?”

Viv goes back to her silence. We went through this on the ride over here. This way, they won’t even ask for ID.

There aren’t many places you can get a private plane in less than two hours. Thankfully, Congress is one of them. And all it took was a single phone call. Two years ago, during a key vote on a controversial aviation bill, the head of FedEx’s government relations office called and asked to speak to Senator Stevens. Personally. Knowing they never cried wolf, I took a chance and put the call through. It was a gorgeous chess move by them. With Stevens on board, it set the tone for the rest of the Midwest Senators, who quickly followed with support for the bill.

Exactly two hours ago, I called FedEx’s government relations office and asked them to return the favor. The Senator, I explained, didn’t want to miss a last-minute fundraising opportunity in South Dakota, so he asked me to call. Personally.

That’s what brings us here. According to the ethics rules, a Senator can use a private corporate jet as long as he reimburses the company for the price of a first-class commercial ticket, which we can repay later. It’s a genius loophole—and Viv and I just jumped headfirst right through it.

As we’re about to enter the building, an automatic door slides open, revealing a room that reminds me of a fancy hotel lobby. Upholstered head chairs. Victorian bronze lamps. Burgundy and gray carpet.

“Can I help you find your aircraft?” a woman in a business suit asks as she leans over the reception desk on our right.

Viv smiles but then makes a face when she realizes that the sudden helpfulness is directed toward me.

“Senator Stevens,” I say.

“Here you go,” a deep voice calls out just past the reception desk. I look over as a pilot with brushed-back blond hair nods our way.

“Tom Heidenberger,” he says, introducing himself with a pilot’s grip. From the handshake alone, I know he’s former military. He reaches over and shakes Viv’s hand as well. She stands straight up, enjoying the attention.

“Senator on his way?” the pilot asks.

“Actually, he’s not gonna make it. I’m speaking in his place.”

“Lucky you,” he says with a grin.

“And this is Catherine, our new legislative assistant,” I say, introducing Viv. Thanks to her navy suit and above-average height, she doesn’t even get a second glance. Congressional staffs are full of kids.

“So you ready to go, Senator?” the pilot asks. “Absolutely,” I reply. “Though I’d love if I could use one of your phones before we take off.”

“No problem at all,” the pilot says. “Is it a regular call, or private?”

“Private,” Viv and I say simultaneously.

The pilot laughs. “Calling the Senator himself, huh?” We laugh along with him as he points us around the corner and down the hallway. “First door on your right.”

Inside, it’s a miniature conference room no bigger than a kitchenette. There’s a desk, a single leather chair, and on the wall, an inspirational poster of a man climbing a mountain. At the center of the desk is a shiny black telephone. Viv picks up the receiver; I hit the button for the speakerphone.

“What’re you doing?” she asks as the dial tone hums through the room.

“Just in case you need help…”

“I’ll be okay,” she shoots back, annoyed that I’m checking up on her. As she hits the button marked Speaker, the dial tone disappears.

I can’t say I blame her. Even forgetting that I got her into this (which she doesn’t), this is her show—and these two phone calls are ones only she can make.

Her fingers tap at the Touch-Tones, and I hear the ringing through the receiver. A female voice picks up on the other end.

“Hey, Adrienne, it’s Viv,” she says, pumping excitement into her voice. The show’s already on. “No… yeah… nuh-uh, really? And she said that?” There’s a short pause as Viv plays along. “That’s why I’m calling,” Viv explains. “No… just listen…”

The female voice on the other line belongs to Adrienne Kaye, one of Viv’s two roommates in the Senate page dorm. As Viv told me on the ride over, every night, when the pages get back from work, they’re supposed to sign the official check-in sheet to make sure everyone’s accounted for. For the thirty pages, it’s a simple system that works just fine—that is, until last week, when Adrienne decided to ditch curfew and stay out late with a group of interns from Indiana. The only reason Adrienne got away with it was because Viv signed Adrienne’s name at the check-in desk and told the proctors she was in the bathroom. Now, Viv’s trying to get the favor returned.

Within thirty seconds, the job’s done. “Great—yeah, no—just tell them it’s that time of the month; that’ll keep them away,” Viv says, giving me the thumbs-up. Adrienne’s in. “Nuh-uh… no one you know,” Viv adds as she glances my way. There’s no smile on her face.

“Jason? Never,” Viv laughs. “Are you a nutbag? I don’t care if he’s cute—he can pick his nose with his tongue…”

She keeps the conversation going just long enough to keep it believable. “Cool, thanks again, Adrienne,” she says, finally hanging up.

“Well done,” I tell her as she stands in front of the desk and dials the next number.

She nods to herself, showing the tiniest hint of pride. The chase with Janos pulled her down a few pegs. She’s still trying to climb her way back up. Too bad for Viv, the next call will only make it harder.

As the phone rings on the other line, I already see the change in her posture. She lowers her chin, ducking down just slightly. Her toes turn inward, one shoe picking at the tip of the other. As her hand grips the receiver, she again glances at me and turns away. I know a call for help when I see one.

I hit the button for the speakerphone just as a female voice picks up on the other line. Viv looks down at the red light marked Speaker. This time, she doesn’t shut it off.

“Doctor’s office,” a female voice answers.

“Hey, Momma, it’s me,” Viv says, forcing the same amount of bubbliness through the phone. Her tone is pitch perfect—even better than the last call.

“What’s wrong?” her mom asks.

“Nothing… I’m great,” Viv says as she leans her left hand against the desk. She’s already having trouble standing up. Two minutes ago, she was seventeen, going on twenty-seven. Now she’s barely thirteen.

“Why’m I on speakerphone?” Mom asks.

“You’re not, Momma; it’s a cell phone that’s—”

“Take me off speaker—y’know I hate it.”

Viv looks my way, and I instinctively step back. She hits the button marked Speaker, and the call leaves the room. The good news is, thanks to the volume of Mom’s voice, I can still hear her through the receiver.

Earlier, I said we shouldn’t make this call. Now we have to. If Mom pulls the fire alarm, we’re not going anywhere.

“Better,” Mom says. “Now, whatsa matter?”

There’s real concern in her voice. Sure, Mom’s loud… but not from anger… or bossiness. Senator Stevens has the same tone. That sense of immediacy. The sound of strength.

“Tell me what happened,” Mom insists. “Someone make another comment?”

“No one made a comment.”

“What about that boy from Utah?”

I can’t place Mom’s accent—part southern Ohio drawl, part broad vowels of Chicago—but whatever it is, when I close my eyes… the intonations… the speed of each syllable… it’s like hearing Viv twenty years in the future. Then I open my eyes and see Viv hunched over from the stress. She’s got a long way to go.

“What about the Utah boy?” Mom persists.

“That boy’s an ass—”

“Vivian…”

“Momma, please—it isn’t a cuss. They say ass on every dumb sitcom on TV.”

“So now you live in a sitcom, huh? Then I guess your sitcom mom will be the one paying your bills and taking care of all your problems.”

“I don’t have problems. It was one comment from one boy… The proctors took care of it… It’s fine.”

“Don’t let them do that to you, Vivian. God says—”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Don’t let them—”

“Mom!”

Mom pauses—a triple-length pause only a mother can give. All the love she has for her daughter—you can tell she’s dying to scream it through the phone… but she also knows that strength isn’t easily transferred. It has to be found. From within.

“Tell me something about the Senators,” Mom finally says. “They ask you to write any legislation yet?”

“No, Mom, I haven’t written any legislation yet.”

“You will.”

It’s hard to explain, but the way she says it, even I believe her.

“Listen, Momma… the only reason I’m calling… they’re taking us on an overnight to Monticello… Thomas Jefferson’s home…”

“I know what Monticello is.”

“Yeah, well… anyway, I didn’t want you fretting when you called and we weren’t here.” Viv stops, waiting to see if Mom buys it. We both hold our breath.

“I told you they’d take you up there, Viv—I saw pictures in the old brochure,” Mom says, clearly excited. And just like that, it’s done.

“Yeah… they do it every year,” Viv adds. There’s a sudden sadness in her voice. Almost as if she wished it weren’t that easy. She glances up at the poster on the wall. We all have our mountains to climb.

“So when you coming back?”

“I think tomorrow night,” Viv says, checking with me. I shrug and nod at the same time. “Yeah… tomorrow night,” she adds.

“Don’t forget to ask about Sally Hemings…”

“Don’t worry, Momma—I’m sure it’s part of the tour.”

“It better be—what’d they think, we’re just gonna forget about all that? Please. It’s bad enough they’re trying to sell it now as some tender love affair…” She stops a moment. “You got enough money and all that?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Right answer.”

Viv lets out a soft smile at the joke.

“You okay, Boo?” Mom asks.

“I’m great,” Viv insists. “Just getting excited for the trip.”

“You should be. Treasure every experience, Vivian. They all matter.”

“I know, Momma…”

Like before, there’s a maternal pause. “You sure you’re okay?”

Viv shifts her weight, leaning even harder on the desk. The way she’s hunched over, it’s almost as if she needs the desk to hold her up. “I told you, Momma. I’m great.”

“Yes. You are. True greatness.” Mom’s voice practically beams through the phone. “Make us proud, Vivian. God gave you to us for a reason. Love, love, love you.”

“Love you, too, Momma.”

As Viv hangs up the phone, she’s still hunched on the desk. Sure, both phone calls can get her grounded and maybe even expelled—but it’s still far better than being dead.

“Viv, just so you know—”

“Please, Harris…”

“But I—”

“Harris… please, for once… stop talking.”

“Ready to fly?” the pilot asks as we return to the main reception area.

“All set,” I say as he leads us toward the back of the building. Over my shoulder, Viv stays silent, purposely walking a few steps behind. I’m not sure if she doesn’t want to see me or doesn’t want me seeing her. Either way, I’ve already pushed enough.

Up the hallway, there are two locked security doors straight ahead. Behind me, I take one last look at the reception area and notice a thin man in a pinstriped suit sitting in one of the upholstered chairs. He wasn’t there when we walked in. It’s like he appeared out of nowhere. We weren’t gone that long. I try to get a better look at him, but he quickly averts his eyes, flipping open his cell phone.

“Everything okay?” the pilot asks.

“Yeah… of course,” I insist as we reach the doors.

The woman at the reception desk hits a button, and there’s a loud magnetic thunk. The doors unlock, and the pilot shoves them open, ushering us outside. No metal detector… no wanding… no screening… no luggage… no hassle. Fifty feet in front of us, sitting on the runway, is a brand-new Gulfstream G400. Along the side of the jet, a thin blue and orange stripe shines in the late afternoon sunlight. There’s even a tiny red carpet at the base of the stairs.

“Beats the heck outta flying coach, huh?” the pilot asks. Viv nods. I try to act unimpressed. Our chariot awaits.

As we climb the stairs to the plane, I look back at the plate-glass window of the hangar, trying to get another look at the thin man inside. He’s nowhere in sight.

Ducking down and stepping into the cabin, we find nine leather club chairs, a buttery tan leather sofa, and a flight attendant who’s waiting just for us.

“Let me know if there’s anything you need,” she offers. “Champagne… orange juice… anything at all.”

A second pilot’s already in the cockpit. When they’re both on board, the flight attendant shuts the door, and we’re on our way. I take the first chair in front. Viv takes the one all the way in back.

The flight attendant doesn’t make us put on our seat belts or read a list of rules. “The seats recline all the way,” she offers. “You can sleep the whole flight if you want.”

The sweetness in her voice is at fairy godmother levels, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Over the past six months, Matthew and I spent countless hours trying to figure out which of our friends and coworkers were potentially playing the game. We narrowed it down to everyone—which is why the only person I trust anymore is a seventeen-year-old who’s terrified and hates me. So even though I’m sitting on a thirty-eight-million-dollar private airplane, it doesn’t change the fact that two of my closest friends in the world are gone forever, while some killer for hire is chasing after us, ready to make sure we join them. No question, there’s nothing to celebrate.

The plane rumbles forward, and I sink down in my seat. Outside the window, a man in blue cargo pants and a blue-and-white-striped button-down shirt rolls up the red carpet, stands at attention, and salutes us as we leave. Even when he’s finished, he just stands there, frozen in place—which is why I notice the sudden movement over his shoulder. Back in the hangar. The thin man on the cell phone presses his open palms against the plate-glass window and watches us leave.

“Any idea who that is?” I ask the flight attendant, noticing that she’s staring at him, too.

“No idea,” she says. “I figured he was with you.”

30

THEY’RE ON A PLANE,” Janos said into his phone as he stormed out of the Hotel George, signaling the doorman for a cab.

“How do you know?” Sauls asked on the other line.

“Believe me—I know.”

“Who told you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Actually, it does.”

Janos paused, refusing to answer. “Just be content with the fact that I know.”

“Don’t treat me like a schmuck,” Sauls warned. “Suddenly, the magician can’t reveal his tricks?”

“Not when the assholes backstage are always opening their mouths.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Sell any good Renoirs lately?” Janos asked.

Sauls stopped. “That was a year and a half ago. And it was a Morisot.”

“I’m well aware what it was—especially when it almost got me killed,” Janos pointed out. This wasn’t the first time he and Sauls had worked together. But as Janos knew, if they couldn’t get back in control soon, it easily could be their last.

“Just tell me how you—”

“Redial on Harris’s phone said he was talking to the mayor.”

“Aw, piss,” Sauls moaned. “You think he’s going to Dakota?”

As a cab stopped in front of him and the doorman opened the door, Janos didn’t answer.

“I don’t believe it,” Sauls added. “I got an embassy dinner tonight, and they’re fuckin’—” He cut himself off. “Where’re you now?”

“In transit,” Janos said as he tossed his leather duffel into the backseat.

“Well, you better get your ass to South Dakota before they—”

Janos hit the End button and slapped his phone shut. After his run-in with the Capitol Police, he already had one headache. He didn’t need another. Sliding inside the cab and slamming the door, he pulled a copy of MG World magazine from his duffel, flipped to a feature story on a restored 1964 MGB roadster, and lost himself in the details of adding a smaller steering wheel to complement the car’s diminutive size. It was the one thing that brought calm to Janos’s day. Unlike people, machines could be controlled.

“Where to?” the cabbie asked.

Janos glanced up from the magazine for barely a moment. “National Airport,” he replied. “And do me a favor—try to avoid the potholes…”

31

THE SOUTH DAKOTA sky is pitch black by the time our Chevy Suburban turns west onto Interstate 90, and the windshield is already covered with the rat-a-tat-tat of dead bugs kamikaze-ing toward the headlights. Thanks to FedEx, the Suburban was waiting for us when we landed, and since it’s their rental, we didn’t have to put down a license or credit card. In fact, when I told them that the Senator was trying to be more conscious of cultivating his farm-boy image, they were more than happy to cancel the private driver and just give us the car instead. Anything to keep the Senator happy. “Yessiree,” I say to Viv, who’s sitting in the passenger seat next to me. “Senator Stevens would much prefer to drive himself.”

Refusing to say a word, Viv stares straight out the front window and keeps her arms crossed in front of her chest. After four hours of similar treatment on the plane, I’m used to the silence, but the further we get from the lights of Rapid City, the more disconcerting it gets. And not just because of Viv’s mood. Once we passed the exit for Mount Rushmore, the bright lamps on the highway started appearing less and less frequently. First they were every hundred or so feet… then every few hundred… and now—I haven’t seen one for miles. Same with other cars. It’s barely nine o’clock local time, but as our headlights joust through the darkness, there’s not another soul in sight.

“You sure this is right?” Viv asks as we follow a sign for Highway 85.

“I’m doing my best,” I tell her. But as the road narrows to two lanes, I glance over and notice that her arms are no longer crossed in front of her chest. Instead, her hands grip the strap of her seat belt where it runs diagonally across her chest. Holding on for dear life.

“Is this right?” she repeats anxiously, turning toward me for the first time in five hours. She sits higher in the seat than I do, and as she says the words, her saucer-cup eyes practically glow in the darkness. Right there, the adolescent who’s mad I got her into this snaps back into the little girl who’s just plain scared.

It’s been a long time since I was seventeen, but if there’s one thing I remember, it was the need for simple reassurance.

“We’re doing fine,” I reply, forcing confidence into my voice. “No lie.”

She smiles faintly and looks back out the front window. I’m not sure if she believes it, but at this point—after traveling this long—she’ll take anything she can get.

Up ahead, the two-lane road swerves to the right, then back to the left. It’s not until my headlights bounce off the enormous cliff sides on either side of us that I realize we’re weaving our way through a canyon. Viv leans forward in her seat, craning her neck and looking up through the windshield. Her eye catches something, and she leans forward a bit further.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. The way her head’s turned, I can’t see her expression, but she’s no longer holding on to the seat belt. Instead, both hands are on the dashboard as she stares skyward.

“Oh…” she finally whispers.

I lean up against the steering wheel and crane my neck toward the sky. I don’t see a thing.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

Still staring upward, she says, “Are those the Black Hills?”

I take a second look for myself. In the distance, the walls of the cliff rise dramatically—at least four hundred feet straight toward the clouds. If it weren’t for the moonlight—where the outlined edges of the cliff are black against the dark gray sky—I wouldn’t even be able to see where they end.

I glance back at Viv, who’s still glued to the sky. The way her mouth hangs open and her eyebrows rise… At first, I thought it was fear. It’s not. It’s pure amazement.

“I take it they don’t have mountains like these where you’re from?” I ask.

She shakes her head, still dumbfounded. Her jaw is practically in her lap. Watching the sheer wonder in her reaction—there’s only one other person who looked at mountains like that. Matthew always said it—they were one of the only things that ever made him feel small.

“You okay there?” Viv asks.

Snapped back to reality, I’m surprised to find her staring straight at me. “O-Of course,” I say, turning back to the curving yellow lines at the center of the road.

She raises an eyebrow—too sharp to believe it. “You’re really not as great a liar as you think.”

“I’m fine,” I insist. “It’s just… being out here… Matthew would’ve liked it. He really… he would’ve liked it.”

Viv watches me carefully, measuring every syllable. I stay focused on the blur of yellow lines snaking along the road. I’ve been in this awkward silence before. It’s like the thirty-second period right after I brief the Senator on a tough issue. Perfect quiet. Where decisions get made.

“Y’know, I… uh… I saw his picture in his office,” she eventually says.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Matthew. I saw his photo.”

I stare at the road, picturing it myself. “The one with him and the blue lake?”

“Yeah… that’s the one,” she nods. “He looked… he looked nice.”

“He was.”

She eventually turns back toward the dark skyline. I stay with the swerving yellow lines. It’s no different from the conversation with her mom. This time, the silence is even longer than before.

“Michigan,” she quietly whispers.

“Excuse me?”

“You said, they don’t have mountains where you’re from. Well, that’s where I’m from.”

“Michigan?”

“Michigan.”

“Detroit?”

“Birmingham.”

I tap my thumbs against the steering wheel as another bug splats against the windshield.

“That still doesn’t mean I forgive you,” Viv adds.

“I wouldn’t expect you to.” Up ahead, the walls of the cliff disappear as we leave the canyon behind. I hit the gas, and the engine grumbles toward the straightaway. Like before, there’s nothing on our right or left—not even a guardrail. Out here, you have to know where you’re going. Though it still always starts with that crucial first step.

“So do you like Birmingham?” I ask.

“It’s high school,” she replies, making me feel every year of my age.

“We used to go up for basketball games in Ann Arbor,” I tell her.

“Really? So you know Birmingham… you’ve been there?” There’s a slight hesitation at the back of her voice. Like she’s looking for an answer.

“Just once,” I say. “A guy in our fraternity let us crash at his parents’. ”

She looks out her window at the side mirror. The canyon’s long gone—lost in the black horizon.

“Y’know, I lied,” she says, her tone flat and lifeless.

“Pardon?”

“I lied…” she repeats, her eyes still on the side mirror. “What I said up in the storage room—about being one of only two black girls in the school…?”

“What’re you taking about?”

“I know I shouldn’t have… it’s stupid…”

“What—”

“I said there were two, but there’re actually fourteen of us. Fourteen black kids. Swear to God. I guess… yeah… fourteen.”

“Fourteen?”

“I’m sorry, Harris… I just wanted to convince you I could handle myself… Don’t be mad…”

“Viv…”

“I thought you’d think I was strong and tough and—”

“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt.

She finally turns toward me. “Wha?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I reiterate. “I mean, fourteen… out of how many? Four hundred? Five hundred?”

“Six hundred and fifty. Maybe six-sixty.”

“Exactly,” I say. “Two… twelve… fourteen… You’re still pretty outnumbered.”

The smallest of smiles creeps up her cheeks. She likes that one. But the way her hands once again grip the seat belt across her chest, it’s clearly still an issue for her.

“It’s okay to smile,” I tell her.

She shakes her head. “That’s what my mom always says. Right after rinse and spit.”

“Your Mom’s a dentist?”

“No, she’s a…” Viv pauses and offers a slight shrug. “… she’s a dental hygienist.”

And right there I spot it. That’s where her hesitation comes from. It’s not that she’s not proud of her mom… but she knows what it feels like to be the one kid who’s different.

Again, I don’t remember much from when I was seventeen, but I do know what it’s like to have Career Day at school when you secretly hope your dad’s not invited. And in the world of Ivy League Washington, I also know what it’s like to feel second-class.

“Y’know, my dad was a barber,” I offer.

She shyly glances my way, rechecking me up and down. “You serious? Really?”

“Really,” I say. “Cut all my friends’ hair for seven bucks apiece. Even the bad bowl cuts.”

Turning toward me, she gives me an even bigger grin.

“Just so you know, I’m not embarrassed of my parents,” she insists.

“I never thought you were.”

“The thing is… they wanted so bad to get me in the school district, but the only way to afford it was by buying this tiny little house that’s literally the last one on the district line. Right on the line. Y’know what that’s like? I mean, when that’s your starting point…”

“… you can’t help but feel like the last man in the race,” I say, nodding in agreement. “Believe me, Viv, I still remember why I first came to the Hill. I spent my first few years trying to right every wrong that was done to my parents. But sometimes you have to realize that some fights are unwinnable.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t fight them,” she challenges.

“You’re right—and that’s a great quote for all the Winston Churchill fans out there—but when the sun sets at the end of the day, you can’t win ’em…”

“You can’t win ’em all? Nuh-uh, you really think that?” she asks with complete sincerity. “I figured that was just in bad movies and… I don’t know… people say the government is faceless and, y’know, broken, but even if you’re here a long time… like when I saw you… that speech… You really think that?”

I grip the steering wheel as if it were a shield, but it doesn’t stop her question from stabbing through my chest. Next to me, Viv waits for her answer—and single-handedly reminds me what I’d forgotten long ago. Sometimes you need a slap in the face to realize what’s coming out of your mouth.

“No…” I finally say. “That’s not what I’m saying at all…”

Viv nods, content that everything’s right in at least that part of her world.

“But let me tell you something,” I quickly add. “There’s something else that goes along with feeling like you’re last in the race—and it’s not a bad thing. Being last means you’ve got a hunger in your gut no one else’ll ever be able to comprehend. They couldn’t buy it with all their money. And know what that hunger gives you?”

“Besides my big butt?”

“Success, Viv. No matter where you go, or what you do. Hunger feeds success.”

We sit in silence for a full minute as my words fade beneath the hum of the engine. She lets the quiet sink in—and this time, I think she’s doing it on purpose.

Staring out the front window, Viv studies the long, angled road in front of us and, to her credit, never lets me know what she’s thinking. She’s gonna be a ruthless negotiator one day.

“How much further till we get there?” she finally asks.

“Fifteen miles until we hit Deadwood… then this town called Pluma… then it’s at least a good hour or so after that. Why?”

“No reason,” she says, pulling her legs up so she’s sitting Indian-style in the passenger seat. With her pointer and middle fingers, she opens and closes an imaginary pair of finger-scissors. “I just wanna know how much time we have for you to tell me about your barber shop.”

“If you want, I bet we can grab a bite to eat in Deadwood. Even out here, they can’t mess up grilled cheese.”

“See, now we got something,” Viv says. “Grilled cheese in Deadwood sounds great.”

32

JANOS’S TRIP TOOK TWO different planes, one stopover, and a three-hour leg with a petite Asian woman whose lifelong dream was to open a soul food restaurant that served fried shrimp. Yet he still hadn’t reached his final destination.

“Minneapolis?” Sauls asked through the cell phone. “What’re you doing in Minneapolis?”

“I heard they have a great Foot Locker at the Mall of America,” Janos growled, pulling his bag from the conveyor belt. “Getting stuck in the airport just wasn’t enough fun for one night.”

“What about the jet?”

“They couldn’t turn it around fast enough. I called every place on the list. Any other wonderful suggestions?”

“And now they canceled your flight?”

“Never was one—I figured I’d find another connection to Rapid City, but let’s just say South Dakota isn’t the top priority on the airlines’ flight plans.”

“So when’s the next—?”

“First thing tomorrow,” Janos said as he shoved his way outside and noticed a sky blue 1965 Mustang convertible passing by. The grille emblem was from a ��67, but the tonneau cover looked original. Nice work.

“Janos…”

“Don’t worry,” he said, his eyes still on the red tail-lights of the convertible as they faded into the night. “As soon as they wake up, I’ll be standing on their chests.”

33

THERE ARE FEW THINGS more instantly depressing than the stale, mildewed smell of an old motel room. The sour, mossy whiff is still in the air as I wake up. Enjoy your stay at the Gold House, a plastic placard on the nightstand reads. There’s a dot-matrix cartoon drawing of a pot of gold at the bottom corner of the sign, which looks like it was made the same year they last changed these sheets.

Last night, we didn’t get in until after midnight. Right now, the digital lights on the alarm clock tell me it’s five in the morning. I’m still on East Coast time. Seven A.M. it is. Kicking the thin, fuzzy blanket aside (I might as well’ve covered myself with a gauze pad), I look back at the pancake pillow and count seventeen black hairs. Already I know it’s gonna be a bad day.

Next to me, the other bed is still made. When we checked in last night, I made Viv wait in the car as I told the woman at the front desk that I needed one room for myself and one for my kids. I don’t care how tall and mature Viv looks. A white guy in his thirties checking into a motel with a younger black girl—and no luggage. Even in a big town, that’ll get people chatting.

On my left, the seventies-era flower-patterned curtains are closed, but I can still see a sliver of the dark sky outside. On my right, the sink is right next to the bed, and as I grab the toothbrush and toiletries we bought in the gas station, I plug in the iron I borrowed from the front desk. With all the running around, our suits look like we played baseball in them. If we plan on pulling this off, we’re gonna have to look the part and get the sharp corners back.

As the iron heats up, I turn to the phone on the nightstand and dial Viv’s room. It rings over and over. No answer. I’m actually not surprised. After what we went through yesterday, she has to be exhausted. I hang up and dial again. Still nothing. I was the same way in high school. The clock radio could scream for an hour, but nothing got me up until Mom banged on the door.

Putting on my slacks, I again check my watch. Even the earliest flight won’t get Janos in for another ten minutes, not including the two hour drive to get here. We’re okay. Just go knock and get her up.

Undoing the chain lock, I tug the door open. A puff of fresh air shoves back at the mustiness—but as I step out and head to my right, I immediately feel something smack into my ankles. I plummet face first toward the concrete breezeway. It’s impossible. He can’t be here yet…

My cheek scrapes against the ground, even as my hands try to break my fall. I turn over as fast as I can. I can already picture Janos’s face… Then I hear the voice behind me.

“Sorry… sorry,” Viv says, sitting on the floor of the concrete breezeway, tucking her long legs out of the way. “You alright?”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I don’t sleep… at least not that well,” she says, looking up from a small brochure. “I don’t mind, though… My mom says some things just are. I’m a bad sleeper. That’s the way I was built.”

“What’re you doing out here?”

“My room stinks. Literally. Like a geriatric barn. Think about it: old people mixed with animals—it’s a good description.”

Climbing to my feet, I roll my tongue inside my cheek. “So you’re always up this early?”

“Page school starts at six-fifteen. The woman at the front desk… she’s all talky, but in a cool way, y’know? I’ve been chatting with her for the past half hour. Can you believe she had two people in her graduating class? This town’s in trouble.”

“What’re you—? I told you not to speak to anyone.” Viv shrinks down, but not by much. “Don’t worry—I told her I’m the au pair… taking care of the kids.”

“In a blue business suit?” I ask, pointing to her outfit.

“I didn’t wear the jacket. Don’t worry—she believed it. Besides, I was hungry. She gave me an orange,” she explains, pulling it from her pocket. “One for you, too.”

She hands me a plastic Baggie with an already peeled orange inside.

“She peeled it for you?”

“Don’t ask. She insisted. I didn’t want to upset her. We’re the first guests they’ve had since… since the actual gold rush.”

“So she’s the one who gave you the brochures?”

She looks back down at a faded pamphlet entitled The Homestead Mine—Staking a Claim in Our Future. “I just thought I should read up on it. That’s okay, right…?”

There’s a faint noise by the stairwell door. Like a crash.

“What was…”

“Shh,” I say.

We both check the breezeway, following the sound up the walkway. The stairwell’s at the far end. No one’s there. There’s another crashing sound. That’s when we see the source of the noise. An ice machine dumping ice. Just ice, I tell myself. It doesn’t make me feel any calmer. “We should…”

“… get out of here,” Viv agrees.

We head for our respective doors. Four minutes of ironing later, I’m dressed to go. Viv’s already waiting outside, her head once again buried in one of the old tourist pamphlets.

“All set?” I ask.

“Harris, you really gotta look at this place—you’ve never seen anything like it.”

I don’t need to read the pamphlet to realize she’s right. We have no idea what we’re getting into, but as I run up the walkway—as Viv chases right behind me—there’s no slowing us down. Whatever Wendell’s digging for, we need to know what’s going on.

From the stairwell, Viv and I rush out into the Gold House’s main lobby. Even considering the time, it’s emptier than I expected. The front desk is vacant, the soda machines have black tape over the coin slots, and the USA Today vending machine has a handwritten sign in it that says, Buy newspapers at Tommy’s (across street). Looking out onto Main Street, we see the signs in every window. Out of Business, it says at the gas station; Lost Lease, it says at Fin’s Hardware. Naturally, my eyes go straight to the barber shop: Gone to Montana—God Bless.

Across the lobby, I spot a metal display rack filled with the tourist brochures Viv picked up. See How a Real Gold Bar Is Made! Visit the Leed Theater! Explore the Mining Museum! But from the faded, yellowed paper, we already know the museum’s closed, the theater’s shut down, and the gold bars haven’t been seen in years. It was the same way when I had to clean out the house after my dad passed. Sometimes you can’t bring yourself to throw stuff away.

When we were heading here, I thought I’d be in my element. I’m not even close. This isn’t a small town. It’s a dead one.

“Pretty sad, huh?” a female voice asks.

I spin around, and a young woman with short black hair enters the lobby from the back room and steps behind the front desk. She can’t be more than twenty-five, and while her complexion identifies her as Native American, even without it, her high cheekbones would be a clear giveaway.

“Hiya, Viv,” she calls out, wiping some sleep from her eyes.

I shoot Viv a look. You gave her your name?

Viv shrugs and steps forward. I shake my head, and she steps back. “I’ll go check on the kids,” she says, moving for the front door.

“They’re fine,” I say, refusing to let her out of my sight. She’s already said enough. The only reason we should be talking to anyone is because we need information, or help, or in this particular case, some last-minute directions.

“Can you tell us how to get to the Homestead mine?” I say as I head for the front desk.

“So they’re reopening it again?” she asks.

“I have no idea,” I counter, leaning an elbow on the front desk and fishing for info. “Everyone seems to have a different answer.”

“Well, that’s what I hear—though Dad says they still haven’t talked to the union.”

“Have they at least been throwing some business your way?” I ask, wondering if she’s seen anybody in the motel.

“You’d think they would… but they got it all in trailers up there. Kitchens… sleeping quarters… everything. I’m telling you, they get an F in making friends.”

“They’re probably just mad they couldn’t find a Holiday Inn,” I say.

She smiles at the jab. In any small town, everyone hates the chains.

Studying me carefully, she cocks her head to the side. “Have I seen you before?” she asks.

“I don’t think so…”

“You sure? Not at Kiwanis?”

“Pretty sure. I’m not really from the neighborhood.”

“Really? And here I thought all the locals wore slacks and button-downs.”

I pull back the slightest bit. She’s starting to warm up, but that’s not my goal. “Listen, about those directions…”

“Of course. Directions. All you gotta do is follow the road.”

“Which one?”

“We only got but one,” she says, tossing me another grin. “Left outta the driveway, then a sharp right up the hill.”

I smile instinctively.

With a quick hop, she boosts herself over the front counter, grabs my arm, and leads me to the door.

“See that building… looks like a giant metal teepee?” she asks, pointing up the mountain to the only structure on top. “That’s the headframe.”

She immediately reads the confused look on my face.

“It covers the mine shaft,” she adds. My look stays the same. “… also known in some circles as the big hole in the ground,” she explains with a laugh. “It protects it from bad weather. That’s where you’ll find the cage.”

“The cage?”

“The elevator,” she says. “I mean, assuming you wanna go down…”

Viv and I share a glance, but neither of us says a word. Up until this point, I didn’t even think that was an option.

“Just follow signs for The Homestead,” the woman adds. “Won’t take you five minutes. You got business up there?”

“Not until later. That’s why we figured we’d check out Mount Rushmore first,” I explain. “How do we get there?”

It’s a pathetic bluff, but if Janos is as close as I think, we at least need to attempt to hide the trail. As she gives us directions, I pretend to write them down.

When she’s done, I wave good-bye and head for our Suburban. Viv’s right next to me, shaking her head. “Is that on purpose or is it just natural?” she finally asks as we pull out of the parking lot.

“I don’t understand.”

“The charm thing: leaning into the counter… her swooning at the small-town flair…” She stops a moment. “Y’know, who we are now is who we always were and who we’ll always be. Is that how you’ve always been?” she asks.

The Suburban swings wide around a sharp right turn, pinning me against my door, and Viv against the armrest. As we weave our way up the hill, we’re focused on the two-story triangular building that sits on top. Turning the final corner, the trees disappear, the paved road ends, and the ground levels off and turns rocky. Up ahead, a space the size of a football field spreads out in front of us. The ground’s dirt, flanked by some jagged rock outcroppings that circle the entire field and rise about twenty feet in the air. It’s as if they shaved off the top of the mountain and built the flat encampment that’s directly ahead of us.

“So you have any idea what we’re even looking for?” Viv asks, studying the terrain. It’s a fair question—and one I’ve been asking myself since the moment we stepped off the plane.

“I think we’ll know it when we see it,” I tell her.

“But with Matthew… you really think Wendell Mining were the ones who had him killed?”

I continue watching the road in front of me. “All I know is, for the past two years, Wendell has been trying to buy this old middle-of-nowhere gold mine. Last year, they failed. This year, they tried to cut through the red tape by sliding it into the Appropriations bill, which according to Matthew, would’ve never gotten anywhere—that is, until it showed up as the newest item up for bid in our little Showcase Showdown.”

“That doesn’t mean Wendell Mining had him killed.”

“You’re right. But once I started digging around, I find out Wendell not only completely forged at least one of the letters endorsing the transfer, but that this wonderful gold mine they supposedly want doesn’t have enough gold in it to make an anklet for a Barbie doll. Think about that a second. These guys at Wendell have spent the last two years killing themselves for a giant empty hole in the ground, and they’re so anxious to get inside, they’ve already started moving in. Add that to the fact that two of my friends were killed for it and, well… with all the insanity going on, you better believe I want to see this thing for myself.”

As we pull toward the edge of the gravel-covered makeshift parking lot, Viv turns to me and nods. “If you wanna know what the fuss is, you gotta go see the fuss yourself.”

“Who said that, your mom?”

“Fortune cookie,” Viv whispers.

At the center of the field is the teepee-shaped building with the word Homestead painted across the side. Closer to us, the parking lot is filled with at least a dozen other cars, and off to the left, three double-wide construction trailers are busy with guys in overalls going in and out, while two separate dump trucks back up toward the building. According to Matthew’s report, the place is supposed to be abandoned and empty. Instead, we’re staring at a beehive.

Viv motions to the side of the building, where another man in overalls is using a mud-covered forklift to unload a huge piece of computer equipment from the back of an eighteen-wheeler. Compared to the muddy forklift, the brand-new computer stands out like a Mack truck on a golf course.

“Why do you need a computer system to dig a giant hole in the ground?” Viv asks.

I nod in agreement, studying the front entrance to the triangular building. “That’s the hundred-thousand-dollar question, isn’t—”

There’s a sharp tap as a knuckle raps against my driver’s-side window. I turn and spot a man with the filthiest construction hat I’ve ever seen. He puts on a smile; I hesitantly roll down the window.

“Hiya,” he says, waving with his clipboard. “You guys here from Wendell?”

34

SO WE’RE DONE?” Trish asked, sitting back in her chair in the House Interior Committee’s hearing room.

“As long as you have nothing else,” Dinah said, shuffling the thick stack of loose pages together and drumming them into a neat pile on the long oval conference table. She wasn’t thrilled to be stepping in for Matthew, but as she told her other office mates, the job still had to be done.

“No, I think that’s—” Cutting herself off, Trish quickly flipped open her three-ring binder and shuffled through the pages. “Aw, crap,” she added. “I just remembered… I got one last project…”

“Actually, me, too,” Dinah said dryly, thumbing through her own notebook but never taking her eyes off her Senate counterpart.

Trish sat up straight and stared back at Dinah. For almost twenty seconds, the two women sat there, on opposite sides of the conference table, without saying a word. Next to them, Ezra and Georgia watched them like the spectators they usually were. Samurai standoff, Matthew used to call it. Happened every time they tried to close the bill. The final grab at the goody bag.

Dinah tapped the point of her pencil against the table, readying her sword. Even with Matthew gone, the battle had to go on. That is, until someone gave up.

“My mistake…” Trish finally offered. “I was reading it wrong… That project can wait till next year.”

Ezra smiled. Dinah barely grinned. She was never one to gloat. Especially with the Senate. As she well knew, if you gloated with the Senate, they’d always bite you back.

“Glad to hear it,” Dinah replied, zipping her fanny pack and standing up from the table.

Enjoying the victory, Ezra hummed Someone’s in the kitchen with Dinah under his breath. Matthew used to do the same thing when his office mate would come in and throw around her weight. Someone’s in the kitchen I knoooow…

“So that’s it?” Georgia asked. “We’re finally finished?”

“Actually, Matthew said you should’ve been finished a week ago,” Dinah clarified. “Now we’re in a mad scramble with a vote at the end of the week.”

“The bill’s on the Floor at the end of the week?” Trish asked. “Since when?”

“Since this morning, when Leadership made the announcement without asking anyone.” All three of her colleagues shook their heads, but it really wasn’t much of a surprise. During election years, the biggest race in Congress was always the one to get home. That’s how campaigns were won. That and the individual projects Members brought home for their districts: a water project in Florida, a new sewer system in Massachusetts… and even that tiny gold mine in South Dakota, Dinah thought.

“You really think we can finish Conference in a week?” Trish called out.

“I don’t see why not,” Dinah replied, lugging the rest of the paperwork to the door that connected to her office. “All you have to do now is sell it to your boss.”

Trish nodded, watching Dinah leave. “By the way,” she called out, “thanks for taking over for Matthew. I know it’s been hard with everything that’s—”

“It had to get done,” Dinah interrupted. “It’s as simple as that.”

With a slam, the door shut behind her, and Dinah crossed back into her office. She was never one for the falsities of small talk, but more important, if she’d waited any longer, she might’ve missed the person who, as she looked across the room, was waiting so patiently for her.

“All set?” Barry asked, leaning against the short filing cabinet between Matthew’s and Dinah’s desks.

“All set,” Dinah replied. “Now where do you want to go to celebrate?”

35

YEAH… ABSOLUTELY… WE’RE from Wendell,” I say, nodding to the big guy in overalls standing outside our car window. “How’d you know?”

He motions to my button-down shirt. Under his overalls, he’s sporting a Spring Break ’94 T-shirt with neon orange letters. Doesn’t take a genius to know who’s the outsider.

“Shelley, right?” I ask, reading the name that’s written in black magic marker across the front of his banged-up construction helmet. “Janos told me to say hi.”

“Who’s Janos?” he asks, confused.

That tells me the first part. Whatever’s going on down there, these guys are just hired hands. “Sorry…” I say. “He’s another Wendell guy. I thought you two might’ve—”

“Shelley, you there?” a voice squawks through the two-way radio on his belt.

“ ’Scuse me,” he says, grabbing the radio. “Mileaway?” he asks.

“Where you at?” the voice shoots back.

“They got me up top the whole day,” Shelley says.

“Surface rat.”

“Mole.”

“Better than deep-level trash,” the voice shoots back.

“Amen to that,” Shelley says, shooting me a grin and inviting me in on the joke. I nod as if it’s the best mining barb I’ve heard all week, then quickly point to one of the few open parking spaces. “Listen, should we…?”

“Uh—ya… right there’s perfect,” Shelley says as the guy on his two-way continues talking. “There’s gear in the dry,” Shelley adds, motioning to the large brick building just behind the metal teepee. “And here…” He pulls a key ring of round metal tags from his pocket and undoes the latch, dropping four of the tags in my hand. Two are imprinted with the number 27; the other two have the number 15. “Don’t forget to tag in,” he explains. “One in your pocket, one on the wall.”

With a quick thanks, we’re headed for our parking spot, and he’s back on his radio.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Viv asks. She’s sitting up slightly taller in the seat than yesterday, but there’s no mistaking the way she stares anxiously in her rearview mirror. When I was listening to Viv’s conversation with her mother, I said that strength had to be found from within. The way Viv continues to eye the rearview, she’s still searching for it.

“Viv, this place doesn’t have a single drop of gold in it, but they’re setting up shop like that scene from E.T. when the government shows up.”

“But if we…”

“Listen, I’m not saying I want to go down in the mine, but you have any better ideas for figuring out what’s going on around here?”

She looks down at her lap, which is covered with the brochures from the motel. On the front page, it reads, From the Bible to Plato’s Republic, the underground has been associated with Knowledge.

That’s what we’re counting on.

“All my friends’ dads used to mine,” I add. “Believe me, even if we do go in, it’s like a cave—we’re talking a few hundred feet down, max…”

“Try eight thousand,” she blurts.

“What?”

She freezes, surprised by the sudden attention. “Th-That’s what it says. In here…” she adds, passing me the brochure. “Before it was closed down, this place was the oldest operating mine in all of North America. It beat every gold, coal, silver, and other mine in the country.”

I snatch the brochure from her hands. Since 1876, it says on the cover.

“They’ve been shoveling for over a hundred and twenty-five years. That’ll get you pretty deep,” she continues. “Those miners who were trapped in Pennsylvania a few years back—what were they at, two hundred feet?”

“Two hundred and forty,” I say.

“Well, this is eight thousand. Can you imagine? Eight thousand. That’s six Empire State Buildings straight into the ground…”

I flip the brochure to the back and confirm the facts: Six Empire State Buildings… fifty-seven levels… two and a half miles wide… and three hundred and fifty miles of underground passageways. At the very bottom, the temperature gets to 133 degrees. I glance out the window at the road beneath us. Forget the beehive. We’re standing on an entire ant farm.

“Maybe I should stay up here,” Viv says. “Y’know… sorta just to keep lookout…”

Before I can respond, she glances back to her rearview. Behind us, a silver Ford pickup pulls across the gravel, into the parking lot. Viv anxiously eyes the driver, checking to see if he looks familiar. I know what she’s thinking. Even if Janos is just touching down right now, he can’t be far behind. That’s the choice: the demon aboveground versus the demon below.

“You really think it’s safer to be up here by yourself?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. She’s still watching the silver pickup.

“Please just promise me we’ll be fast,” she begs.

“Don’t worry,” I say, swinging my door open and hopping outside. “We’ll be in and out before anyone even knows it.”

36

LIGHTLY TAPPING THE side of his thumb against the top of the Hertz rental car counter in the Rapid City airport, Janos made no attempt to hide his frustration with the South Dakota way of life. “What’s taking so long?” he asked the young employee with the skinny Mount Rushmore tie.

“Sorry… just been one of those busy mornings,” the man behind the counter replied, shuffling through a short pile of paperwork.

Janos looked around the main lounge of the airport. There were a total of six people, including a Native American janitor.

“Okay—and when will you be returning the car?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Hopefully, tonight,” Janos shot back.

“Just a quick visit, eh?”

Janos didn’t answer. His eyes stared at the key chain in the man’s hand. “Can I just have my key?”

“And will you be needing any insurance on the—” Janos’s hand shot out like a dart, gripping the man’s wrist and swiping the key from his hand.

“We done?” Janos growled.

“I-It’s a blue Ford Explorer… in spot fifteen,” the man said as Janos ripped a map from the pad on the counter and stormed toward the exit. “You have a good day, now, Mr…” The man looked down at the photocopy of the New Jersey driver’s license Janos had given him. Robert Franklin. “You have a good day, now, Mr. Franklin. And welcome to South Dakota!”

37

WALKING AS FAST AS I can with my briefing book in hand, I keep up my Senator stride as we head for the red brick building. The book is actually the owner’s manual from the glove compartment of the Suburban, but at the pace we’re moving, no one’ll ever get a good look. On my right, Viv completes the picture, trailing behind me like the faithful aide to my Wendell executive. Between her height and her newly pressed navy suit, she looks old enough to play the part. I tell her not to smile, just to be safe. The only way to belong is to act like you belong. But the closer we get to the brick building, the more we realize there’s almost no one around to call us out and scream bullshit. Unlike the trailers behind us, the pathways over here are all empty.

“You think they’re underground?” Viv asks, noticing the sudden decrease in population.

“Hard to say; I counted sixteen cars in the parking lot—plus all that machinery. Maybe all the work’s being done back by the trailers.”

“Or maybe whatever’s up here is something they don’t want tons of people to see.”

I pick up my pace; Viv matches my speed. As we turn the corner of the brick building, there’s a door in front and a metal grated staircase that heads down and into an entrance on the side of the building. Viv looks my way. I agree. Sticking to the back roads, we both go for the stairs. As we step down, little bits of rock slide from our shoes through the grating and down to a concrete alley twenty feet below. It’s not even close to the drop we’re about to take. I look over my shoulder. Staring through the steps, Viv starts slowing down.

“Viv…”

“I’m fine,” she calls out, even though I never asked the question.

Inside the red brick building, we cross through a dark tiled hallway and enter a kitchenette that feels like it’s been picked over and left for dead. The vinyl floor is cracked, the refrigerator is open and empty, and a cork bulletin board sits flat on the floor, filled with brittle, yellowed union notices that’re dated at least two years ago. Whatever these guys are up to, they’ve only come back here recently.

Back in the hallway, I stick my head in a room where the door is off its hinges. It takes me a second to weave inside, but when I do, I stop midstep on the tile floor. In front of me are row after row of open industrial showers, but the way they’re set up, it’s like a gas chamber—the nozzles are just pipes sticking out of the wall. And though I know they’re just showers, when I think of the miners washing away another grueling day of work, it’s truly one of the most depressing sights I’ve ever seen.

“Harris, I got it!” Viv says, calling me back to the hallway, where she taps her pointer finger against a sign that says The Ramp. Below the words, there’s a tiny directional arrow pointing down another set of stairs.

“You sure that’s the—?”

She motions to the old metal punch clock that’s next to the sign, then looks back at the bulletin board and the refrigerator. No question about it. When miners used to fill this place, here’s where they started every day.

Down the stairs, the hallway narrows, and the ceiling is low. From the mustiness alone, I know we’re in the basement. There are no more rooms off to the side—and not a single window in sight. Following another sign for The Ramp, we dead-end at a rusted blue metal door that’s caked in mud and reminds me of the door on an industrial freezer. I give it a sharp push, but the door seems to push back.

“What’s wrong?” Viv asks.

I shake my head and try again. This time, the door cracks open slightly, and a sharp, hot gust of air bursts out, licking me in the face. It’s a wind tunnel down there. I shove a little harder, and the door swings open, its rusty hinges screaming as the full dry heat of the breeze bounces against our chests.

“Smells like rocks,” Viv says, covering her mouth.

Reminding myself that the man in the parking lot told us to come this way, I will myself to take my first step into the narrow concrete hallway.

As the door shuts behind us, the wind dies down, but the dryness is still in the air. I keep licking my lips, but it doesn’t help. It’s like eating a sand castle.

Up ahead, the hallway curves to the right. There are some full mop buckets along the floor, and a fluorescent light in the ceiling. Finally, a sign of life. Heading deeper into the turn, I’m not sure what we’re breathing, but as I taste the bitter air on my tongue, it’s dusty, hot, and bad. On the left-hand wall, there’s a 1960s-era Fallout Shelter sign with an arrow pointing dead ahead. Caked in dirt, you can still make out the black and yellow nuclear logo.

“Fallout shelter?” Viv asks, confused. “Eight thousand feet below ground? A little overkill, no?”

Ignoring the comment, I stay focused on the hallway, and as it straightens out, we get our second sign of life.

“What is it?” Viv says, hesitantly moving forward. Up ahead, the right and left sides of the hall are covered from floor to ceiling with metal storage racks that look like shallow bookshelves. But instead of books, they’re filled with gear: dozens of knee-high rubber boots, thick nylon tool belts, and most important, mine lights and white construction helmets.

“Is this gonna fit?” Viv asks, forcing a laugh as she pulls a helmet onto her short-cropped Afro. She’s trying her best to act ready for this, but before she convinces me, she has to convince herself. “What’s this?” she adds, nervously tapping the metal clip on the front of her helmet.

“For the light,” I say, pulling one of the mine lights off the shelf. But as I attempt to grab the round metal bulb, I notice that it’s connected by a black wire to a red plastic case that holds a paperback-sized version of a car battery—and that the battery is connected to some clips on the shelf. This isn’t just a bookcase—it’s a charging station.

Unlatching the clips, I unhook the battery, pull it from the shelf, and slide it onto one of the nearby tool belts. As Viv fastens it around her waist, I thread the wire over the back of her shoulder and hook the light onto the front of her helmet. Now she’s all set. An official miner.

She flips a switch, and the light turns on. Twenty-four hours ago, she would’ve bobbed her head back and forth, teasing me by shining the light in my face. Now the light shines on her feet as she stares at the floor. The excitement’s long gone. It’s one thing to say you’re going underground; it’s entirely another thing to do it.

“Don’t say it…” she warns as I’m about to open my mouth.

“It’s safer than being—”

“I said don’t say it. I’ll be fine,” she insists. She clenches her teeth and takes a deep breath of the hot, chalky air.

“How do we know which ones are charged?” she asks. Reading my expression, she points to the bookshelves on our right and left. Both are filled with battery packs. “What if one’s a check-in station and one’s a checkout?” she adds, knocking on the red casing of her own battery. “For all we know, this came back ten minutes ago.”

“You think that’s how they—?”

“That’s what they do at laser tag,” she points out.

I give her a long look. I hate myself for bringing her here.

“You keep yours from the left, I’ll take mine from the right,” I say. “Either way, we’ll at least have one that works.”

She nods at the logic as I grab two orange mesh construction vests from a nearby garbage can. “Put this on,” I tell her, tossing one of the vests her way.

“Why?”

“The same reason every bad spy movie has someone sneaking in dressed as a janitor. An orange vest’ll take you anywhere…”

Skeptically examining herself as she tightens the Velcro straps on the side of the vest, she adds, “I look like I should be doing roadwork.”

“Really? I was thinking more crossing guard.”

She laughs at the joke—and from the smile on her face, it looks like it’s exactly what she needed.

“Feeling better?” I ask.

“No,” she says, unable to hide her smirk. “But I’ll get there.”

“I’m sure we will.”

She likes the sound of that.

“So you really think we can pull this off?” she asks.

“Don’t ask me—I’m the one who said you can’t win ’em all.”

“You still feel that way?”

I lift one shoulder and move up the dust-filled hallway.

Viv’s right behind me.

At the far end of the hall, the metal bookshelves are gone, and the basement walls are instead lined with wooden benches that sit end to end for at least a few hundred feet. Based on the photos in the brochure, during the mine’s heyday, miners lined up here every morning, waiting for their ride to work. Back in D.C., we do the same thing on the metro—line up underground and take the subway downtown. The only difference out here is, the subway isn’t a horizontal ride. It’s vertical.

“What’s that noise…?” Viv asks, still standing a few steps behind me.

Straight ahead, the mouth of the hallway opens into a room with a thirty-foot ceiling, and we hear a deafening rumble. The wood benches vibrate slightly, and the lights begin to flicker—but our eyes are glued to the elevator shaft that slices from floor to ceiling through the center of the tall room. Like a vertical freight train, the elevator rockets up through the floor and disappears through the ceiling. Unlike a normal elevator shaft, however, this one is only enclosed on three sides. Sure, there’s a yellow stainless steel door that prevents us from peeking into the shaft and having our heads chopped off, but above the door—in the twenty-foot space before the ceiling starts—we can see straight into the elevator as it flies by.

“You see anyone?” I ask Viv.

“It was only half a second.”

I nod. “I thought it looked empty, though.”

“Definitely empty,” she agrees.

Stepping further into the room, we simultaneously crane our necks up at the elevator shaft. For some reason, there’s water running down the walls. As a result, the wooden walls of the shaft are dark, slick, and slowly corroding. The closer we get, the more we feel the draft of cold air emanating from the open hole. We’re still at basement level, but the way the tunnel curved us around, I’m guessing we’re in another building.

“Think that’s the teepee up there?” Viv asks, pointing with her chin at the sliver of sunlight that creeps through the very top of the shaft.

“I think it has to be—the woman in the motel said that’s where the—”

A dull thud echoes down the shaft from the room above. It’s followed by another… and another. The noise stays steady but never gets louder. Just soft and even—like footsteps. Viv and I both freeze.

“Frannie, it’s Garth—cage is at station,” a man’s voice announces with a flat South Dakota accent. His voice reverberates through the shaft—it’s coming from the room above us.

“Stop cage,” a female voice replies, crackling through an intercom.

There’s a loud shriek of metal that sounds like a storefront’s rolltop gate being thrown open—the steel safety gate on the front of the cage. The footsteps clunk as they enter the cage. “Stop cage,” the man says as the door slides shut with another shriek. “Going to thirteen-two,” he adds. “Lower cage.”

“Thirteen-two,” the woman repeats through the intercom. “Lowering cage.”

A second later, there’s a soft rumble, and the benches behind us again start to vibrate. “Oh, shit…” Viv mutters.

If we can see them, they can see us. As the elevator plummets downward, we both race to opposite sides of the shaft. Viv goes left; I go right. The elevator screeches past us like a freefall ride in an amusement park, but within seconds, the thundering sound is muffled as it fades down the rabbithole. Ducked around the corner, I still don’t move. I just listen—waiting to see how long it takes. It’s a seemingly endless drop. Six Empire State Buildings straight down. And then… deep below us, the metal of the cage whispers slightly, lets out one final gasp, and finally—poof—disappears in the dark silence. The only thing we hear now is the calming swish of the water as it runs down the walls of the shaft.

Above my head, next to the rusted-out yellow door, there’s a short wall with a break-glass-in-emergency fire alarm. Next to the alarm is a phone receiver and a matching rusty keypad. There’s our way in.

I glance back at Viv, who’s got her hands up on her head and a dumbfounded look on her face as she studies the elevator. “Nuh-uh-uh,” she says. “Nuh-uh. No way you’re gettin’ me in that…”

“Viv, you knew we were going down…”

“Not in that rusty old thing, I didn’t. Forget it, Harris—I’m done. Gone. Nn-nnn. Momma don’t let me get on buses that run inta that bad a neighborhood…”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I agree… That’s why I’m keeping my black ass right here.”

“You can’t hide here.”

“I can… I will… I am. You go jump in the well—I’ll be the one up here turning the crank so we can at least get the water bucket back at the end of the day.”

“Where’re you gonna hide up here?”

“Plenty of places. Lots of ’em…” She looks around at the wooden benches… the narrow hallway… even the empty elevator shaft, where there’s nothing but a cascade of running water. The rest of the room is just as bare. There’re some old tires in the corner and an enormous wooden spool of discarded electrical wire in the back.

I cross my arms and stare her down.

“C’mon, Harris, stop…”

“We shouldn’t separate, Viv. Trust me on this—I can feel it in my gut: we need to stay together.”

Now she’s the one staring at me. She studies my eyes, then glances over at the intercom. Just behind us, leaning against the wall, is a bright blue sign with white stenciled letters:

Level

Station Code

Top

1-1

Ramp

1-3

200

2-2

300

2-3

800

3-3

The list continues through all fifty-seven levels. Right now, we’re on the Ramp. At the very bottom, the list ends with:

Level

Station Code

7700

12-5

7850

13-1

8000

13-2

The eight-thousand-foot level. Station code: thirteen-two. I remember it from the guy with the flat accent barely two minutes ago. That’s the code he yelled into the intercom to take the elevator down, which means that’s where the action is. Thirteen-two. Our next destination. I turn back to Viv.

She’s still glaring at the blue sign and the word 8000. “Hurry up and call it in,” she mutters. “But if we get stuck down there,” she threatens, sounding just like her mom, “you’re gonna pray God gets you before I do.”

Wasting no time, I pick up the receiver and take a quick check of the ceiling for video cameras. Nothing in sight—which means we’ve still got some wiggle room. I dial the four-digit number that’s printed on the base of the rusty keypad: 4881. The numbers stick as I press each one.

“Hoist…” a female voice answers.

“Hey, it’s Mike,” I announce, playing the odds. “I need a ride down to thirteen-two.”

“Mike who?” she shoots back, unimpressed. From her accent, I know she’s a local. From my accent, she knows I’m not.

“Mike,” I insist, pretending to be annoyed. “From Wendell.” If the Wendell folks are just moving in, she’s been having conversations like this all week. There’s a short pause, and I can practically hear the sigh leave her lips.

“Where are you?” she asks.

“The Ramp,” I say, reading it again from the sign.

“Wait right there…”

As I turn toward Viv, she reaches into her pocket and takes out a metal device that looks like a thin version of a calculator, but without as many buttons.

Reading my look, she holds it up so I can see it. Below the digital screen is a button marked O_2%. “Oxygen detector?” I ask as she nods. “Where’d you get that?”

She motions over her shoulder to the shelves in the hallway. The black digital numbers on the screen read 20.9.

“Is that good or bad?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” she says, reading the instructions on the back. “Listen to this: Warning: Lack of oxygen may be unnoticeable and will quickly cause unconsciousness and/or death. Check detector frequently. You gotta be friggin’—”

The thought’s interrupted by the giant rumble in the distance. It’s like a train pulling into a station—the floor starts to vibrate, and I can feel it against my chest. The lights flicker ever so slightly, and Viv and I twist back toward the elevator shaft. There’s a sharp screech as the brakes kick in and the cage rattles toward us. But unlike last time, instead of continuing through the ceiling, it stops right in front of us. I glance through the cutout window in the yellow steel door, but there’s no light inside the cage. It’s gonna be a dark ride down.

“See anything?” the female hoist operator asks sarcastically through the receiver.

“Yeah… no… it’s here,” I reply, trying to remember the protocol. “Stop cage.”

“Okay, get yerself in and hit the intercom,” she says. “And don’t forget to tag in before you go.” Before I can ask, she explains, “The board behind the phone.”

Hanging up the receiver, I cross behind the short wall that holds the phone and fire alarm.

“We okay?” Viv asks.

I don’t answer. On the opposite side of the wall, short nails are hammered into a square plank of wood and numbered 1 through 52. Round metal tags hang from nails 4, 31, and 32. Three men are already in the mine, plus however many entered from the level above. From my pocket I pull out my own two tags—both numbered 27. One in your pocket, one on the wall, the guy out front said.

“You sure that’s smart?” Viv asks as I put one of my tags on the nail labeled 27.

“If something happens, it’s the only proof we’re down there,” I point out.

Tentatively she pulls out her own tag and hooks it on the nail labeled 15.

“Harris…”

Before she can say it, I cross back to the front of the cage. “It’s just insurance—we’ll be up and down in a half hour,” I say, hoping to keep her calm. “Now c’mon, your Cadillac awaits…”

With a sharp yank, I pull the lever on the steel door. The lock unhooks with a thunk, but the door weighs a ton. As I dig in my feet and finally tug it open, a mist of cold water sprays against my face. Up above us, a drumbeat of thick droplets bangs against the top of my construction helmet. It’s like standing directly under the edge of an awning during a rainstorm. The only thing between us and the cage is the metal safety gate on the cage itself.

“Let’s go…” I say to Viv, reaching down and twisting the latch at the bottom of the gate. With one last pull and a final metal shriek, the gate rolls open like a garage door, revealing an interior that reminds me of the Dumpster where I found Viv’s nametag. Floors… walls… even the low ceiling—it’s all rusted metal, slick with water and covered in dirt and grease.

I motion to Viv, and she just stands there. I motion again, and she hesitantly follows me inside, desperately looking for something to hold on to. There’s nothing. No banisters, no handrails, not even a fold-down seat. “It’s a steel coffin,” she whispers as her voice echoes off the metal. I can’t argue with the analogy. Built to carry as many as thirty men standing shoulder to shoulder below the earth and to withstand any random blasting that might be happening on any level, the space is as cold and bare as an abandoned boxcar. The thing is, as thick drops of water continue to drumbeat against my helmet, I realize there’s one thing worse than being stuck in a coffin: being stuck in a leaky coffin.

“This is just water, right?” Viv asks, squinting up at the mist.

“If it were anything bad, those other guys would never’ve gotten in,” I point out.

Flipping a switch on the front of her helmet, Viv turns on her mine light and stares down at the directions for her oxygen detector. I flip on my own light and approach the intercom, which looks like the buzzer outside my old apartment building. The only difference is, thanks to years of water damage, the entire front panel is covered with a thick mossy film that smells like wet carpet.

“You gonna touch that?” Viv asks.

I don’t have a choice. I press the large red button with just the very tips of my fingers. It’s caked in slippery goo. My fingers slide as I hit it.

“Stop cage,” I say into the speaker.

“You close the safety gate?” the woman’s voice buzzes through the intercom.

“Doing it right now…” Reaching up, I grab the wet nylon strap and drag the garage door back into place. It screeches against the rollers and slams with a metal clang. Viv jumps at the sound. No turning back.

“Just one more question,” I say into the intercom. “All the water down here…”

“That’s just for the shaft,” the woman explains. “Keeps the walls lubricated. Just don’t drink it and you’ll be fine,” she adds with a laugh. Neither of us laughs back. “Now, you ready or not?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, staring through the metal grate at the emptiness of the basement. The way Viv’s light shines over my shoulder, I can tell she’s giving it one last look herself. Her light points toward the fire alarm and the telephone. On the other side of the wall are our metal tags. The only proof of our descent.

I turn around to say something but decide against it. We don’t need another speech. We need answers. And whatever’s down here, this is the only way we’ll get them.

“Going to thirteen-two,” I say into the intercom, using the same code from before. “Lower cage.”

“Thirteen-two,” the woman repeats. “Lowering cage.” There’s a grinding of metal and one of those never-ending pauses you find on a roller coaster. Right before the big drop.

“Don’t look,” the woman teases through the intercom. “It’s a long way down…”

38

YOU THERE YET?” Sauls asked, his voice breaking up as it came through Janos’s cell phone.

“Almost,” Janos replied as his Ford Explorer blew past yet another thicket of pine, spruce, and birch trees as he made his way toward Leed.

“What’s almost?” Sauls asked. “You an hour away? Half hour? Ten minutes? What’s the story?”

Gripping the steering wheel and studying the road, Janos stayed silent. It was bad enough that he had to drive this piece of dreck—he didn’t need to listen to the nagging as well. Flipping on the radio in the truck, Janos turned the dial until he found nothing but static.

“You’re breaking up…” he said to Sauls. “Can’t hear you…”

“Janos…”

Slapping his phone shut, he tossed it into the empty passenger seat and focused back on the road in front of him. The morning sky was crystal blue, but from the nonstop bending of the two-lane road, and the claustrophobia from the surrounding mountains, this was a tough drive during the day, let alone at night—especially if you’d never done it before. Add that to the late hour of Harris and Viv’s arrival, and they may’ve even turned off for a snack, or even some sleep. Whipping around yet another curve, Janos shook his head. It was a nice thought, but as he realized an hour ago when he blew past that diner in Deadwood, it’s one thing to stop for food or toiletries—it’s quite another to set up camp before you reach your destination. If Harris was smart enough to get them this far, he was also smart enough to make sure they didn’t stop until they got to the very end.

Welcome to Leed—Home of the Homestead Mine, the billboard said along the side of the road.

Janos breezed right by it, recalculating the timeline in his head. Even if their jet got off immediately, they couldn’t have arrived before midnight. And if they didn’t get in until midnight, they had to sleep somewhere…

Making a sharp left into the parking lot of the squat sixties-era building, Janos read the signs in the neighboring storefront windows: Out of Business… Lost Lease… Gone to Montana. Sauls was at least right about that—Leed was definitely on its last legs. But as he parked his car and eyed the neon Vacancy sign out front, it was clear at least one place was still open: the Gold House Motel.

Janos opened his door and headed straight inside. On his left, he noticed the metal rack of tourist brochures. All of them were faded by the sun, every single one of them—except for the one entitled The Homestead Mine. Janos studied the rich red, white, and blue colors of the pamphlet. The sun hadn’t faded it a bit—almost as if… as if it’d just been exposed in the last hour or so.

“Hiya, there,” the woman at the front desk called out with a friendly smile. “So what can I do for you today?”

39

MY STOMACH LEAPS into my chest as the cage plummets. For the first few feet, it’s no different from an elevator ride, but as we pick up speed and plunge down the shaft, my stomach sails up toward my esophagus. Jerking back and forth, the cage bangs wildly against the walls of the shaft, almost knocking us off our feet. It’s like trying to stand on a rocking rowboat as it bottoms out under you.

“Harris, tell her to slow down before—!”

The floor of the cage heaves violently to the left, and Viv loses her chance to finish the thought.

“Lean against the wall—it makes it easier!” I call out.

“What?!” she shouts, though I can barely hear her. Between the pounding of the cage, the speed of our descent, and the rumble of the waterfall, everything’s drowned in a never-ending, screeching roar.

“Lean against the wall!” I yell.

Taking my own advice, I lean back and fight to keep my balance as the rowboat rattles beneath me. It’s the first time I take a glance outside the cage. The safety gate may be closed, but through the grating, the subterranean world rushes by: a blur of brown dirt… then a flash of an underground tunnel… another blur of dirt… another tunnel. Every eight seconds, a different level whizzes by. The openings to the tunnels whip by so fast, I can barely get a look—and the more I try, the more it blurs, and the dizzier I get. Cave opening after cave opening after cave opening… We’ve gotta be going forty miles an hour.

“You feel that?” Viv calls out, pointing to her ears.

My ears pop, and I nod. I swallow hard, and they pop again, tighter than before.

It’s been over three minutes since we left, and we’re still headed down what’s easily becoming the longest elevator ride of my life. On my right, the entrances to the tunnels continue to whip by at their regular blurred pace… and then, to my surprise, they start to slow down.

“We there?” Viv asks, looking my way so her mine light shines in my face.

“I think so,” I say as I turn toward her and accidentally blind her right back. It takes a few seconds for us to realize that as long as our lights are on, the only way we can talk is by turning our heads so we’re not eye to eye. For some people in the Capitol, that comes naturally. For me, it’s like fighting blind. Every emotion starts in our eyes. And right now, Viv won’t face me.

“How we doing on air?” I ask as she looks down at her oxygen detector.

“Twenty-one percent is normal—we’re at 20.4,” she says, flipping to the instructions on the back. Her voice wobbles, but she’s doing her best to mask her fear. I check to see if her hands are shaking. She turns slightly so I can’t see them. “Says here you need sixteen percent to breathe normally… nine percent before you go unconscious… and at six percent, you wave bye-bye.”

“But we’re at 20.4?” I say, trying to reassure her.

“We were 20.9 up top,” she shoots back.

The cage bucks to a final halt. “Stop cage?” the woman asks through the intercom.

“Stop cage,” I say, pressing the red button and wiping the slime against my tool belt.

As I take my first peek through the metal safety gate, I look up at the ceiling, and my mine light bounces off a bright orange stenciled sign dangling from two wires: 4850 Level.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Viv mumbles. “We’re only halfway there?”

I press the intercom button and lean toward the speaker. “Hello…?”

“What’s wrong?” the hoist operator barks back.

“We wanted to go to the eight thousa—”

“Cross the drift and you’ll see the Number Six Winze. The cage is waiting for you there.”

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“It’s fine if you wanna stop at 4850, but if you plan on going deeper, you gotta take the other.”

“I don’t remember this last time,” I say, bluffing to see if it’s changed.

“Son, unless you were here in the 1900s, there ain’t nothin’ that’s different. They got cables now that’ll hold a cage at ten thousand feet, but back then, the furthest they could go was five thousand at a time. Now, step outside, cross the drift, and tell me when you’re in.”

I tug on the safety gate, and it rolls up and out of the way. A downpour of water from the shaft forms a wet wall that partially blocks us from seeing out. Darting straight through the waterfall and feeling the freezing water pummel my back, I dash out into the mine, where the floor, walls, and ceiling are all made of tightly packed brown dirt. No different from a cave, I tell myself, stepping ankle-deep in a puddle of mud. On both sides of the tunnel as it stretches out in front of us are another twenty feet of side-by-side benches. They’re no different from the ones up top, except for the elongated American flag that someone’s spray-painted along the entire backrest. It’s the only patch of color in this otherwise muddy-brown underworld, and as we walk past the long stretches of bench, if I close my eyes, I swear I can see the ghostly afterimages of hundreds of miners—heads hung low, elbows resting on their knees—as they wait in the dark, beaten from another day spent huddled underground.

It’s the same look my dad had on the fifteenth of every month—when he’d count up how many haircuts he’d need to make the mortgage. Mom used to scold him for refusing tips, but back then, he thought it was bad taste in a small town. When I was twelve, he gave up the shop and moved the business into the basement of our house. But he still had that look. I used to think it was regret for spending his whole day down there. It wasn’t. It was dread—the pain you feel from the thought that you have to do it again tomorrow. Entire lives spent underground. To cover it up, Dad put up posters of Ralph Kiner, Roberto Clemente, and the emerald green outfield at Forbes Field; down here, they use the red, white, and blue of the flag—and the bright yellow door of the cage that sits fifty feet dead ahead.

Crossing the drift, we plow through the mud, heading straight for the door marked Winze No. 6.

As I enter the new cage and pull the safety gate down, Viv scans the even tinier metal shoebox. The lower ceiling makes the coffin feel even smaller. As Viv cranes her neck downward, I can practically smell claustrophobia setting in.

“This is Number Six Hoist,” the woman announces through the intercom. “All set?”

I glance at Viv. She won’t even look up. “All set,” I say into the intercom. “Lower cage.”

“Lower cage,” she repeats as the coffin starts to rumble. We both lean back against our respective walls, prepping ourselves for the freefall. A bead of water swells on the ceiling of the cage, drops to the ground, and plinks into a small puddle. I hold my breath… Viv looks up at the noise… and the floor once again plummets from beneath us.

Next stop: eight thousand feet below the earth’s surface.

40

THE CAGE PLUNGES straight down as my ears once again pop and a sharp pain corkscrews through my forehead. But as I fight for balance and try to steady myself on the vibrating wall, something tells me my instant headache isn’t just from the pressure in my ears.

“How’s our oxygen?” I call out to Viv, who’s cradling the detector in both hands and struggling to read as we’re jarred back and forth. The roaring sound is once again deafening.

“What?” she shouts back.

“How’s our oxygen?!”

She cocks her head at the question, reading something on my face.

“Why’re you suddenly worried?” she asks.

“Just tell me what the percentages are,” I insist.

She studies me again, soaking it all in. Over my shoulder, a different level in the mine flashes by every few seconds. Viv’s features sink just as fast. Her bottom lip starts to quiver. For the past five thousand–plus feet, Viv’s anchored herself to my own emotional state: the confidence that snuck us in here, the desperation that got us on the first cage, even the stubbornness that kept us moving. But the moment she gets her first whiff of my fear—the moment she thinks my own anchor is unmoored—she’s floundering and ready to capsize.

“How’s our oxygen?” I ask again.

“Harris… I wanna go up…”

“Just give me the number, Viv.”

“But—”

“Give me the number!”

She looks down at the detector, almost lost. Her forehead’s covered in sweat. But it’s not just her: All around us, the cold breeze that whipped through the top of the shaft is long gone. At these levels, the deeper we go underground, the hotter it gets—and the more Viv starts to lose it.

“Nineteen… we’re down to nineteen,” she stutters, coughing and holding her throat. Nineteen percent is still within normal range, but it doesn’t calm her down. Her chest rises and falls in quick succession, and she staggers backward into the wall. I’m still breathing fine.

Her body starts to tremble, and not just from the movement of the cage. It’s her. The color drains from her face. Her mouth gapes open. As her shaking gets faster, she can barely stand up. A loud, empty gasp echoes from deep within her chest. The oxygen detector drops from her hand, smacking into the floor. Oh, no. If she’s hyperventilating…

The cage rumbles down the shaft at forty miles an hour. Viv looks across at me. Her eyes are wide, begging for help. “Hhhh…” Gripping her chest, she lets out a long, protracted gasp and crumples to the floor.

“Viv…!”

I leap toward her just as the cage is slammed to the right. Off balance and knocked to the left, I crash into the wall shoulder first. A jolting pain runs down my arm. Viv’s still gasping, and the sudden jolt sends her falling forward. Sliding on my knees, I dive at her, catching her just as she’s about to hit face first.

I turn her around and cradle her body in my arms. Her helmet falls to the ground as her eyes dance wildly back and forth. She’s in full panic. “I got you, Viv… I got you…” I tell her, whispering the words over and over. Her head’s in my lap, and she’s trying to catch her breath, but the deeper we plummet, the more we feel the heat. I lick a puddle of sweat from the dimple of my top lip. It’s easily over ninety degrees down here.

“Wh-What’s happening?” Viv asks. As she looks up at me, her tears run back toward her temples and are swallowed by her hair.

“The heat’s normal… It’s just the pressure from the rocks above us… plus we’re getting closer to the earth’s core…”

“What about oxygen?” she stutters.

I turn to the detector, which is lying beside her. As my light shines across the digital screen, it goes from 19.6%… to 19.4%

“Holding steady,” I tell her.

“You lying to me? Please don’t lie…”

This is no time to send her spiraling. “We’re gonna be fine, Viv… Just keep taking deep breaths.”

Following my own instructions, I suck in a chestful of steamy, hot air. It burns my lungs like a deep breath in a sauna. The sweat is pouring from my face, dripping off the tip of my nose.

Kneeling behind Viv, who’s still on the ground, I take off her orange vest and jacket and push her forward so her head’s between her knees. The back of her neck is drenched, and a long, wet sweat stain runs down her spine, soaking through her shirt. “Deep breaths… deep breaths…” I tell her.

She whispers something back, but as the cage hurtles downward, the rumbling of the walls is too loud for me to hear. One… two… three entrances to the tunnels whiz by within thirty seconds. We have to be close to seven thousand feet.

“Almost there…” I add, putting both hands on her shoulders and holding her tight. She needs to know I won’t let go.

As another tunnel whizzes by, my ears pop once more, and I swear my head’s about to explode. But just as I clench my teeth and shut my eyes, my stomach lurches back into place. There’s an audible screech and a sudden tug in forward momentum that reminds me of an airplane coming to a sharp stop. We’re finally slowing down. And as the cage settles into a slow rumble, Viv’s breathing does the same. From frenetic… to rushed… to the steady in-and-out of calm… The slower we go, the more she levels off.

“There you go… just like that…” I say, again holding the back of her neck. Her huffing and puffing is smooth and steady as the cage jerks to its final stop. For a full minute, we dangle there, not moving. Viv is slumped in the bottom of the cage; the cage is slumped at the bottom of the shaft.

Her breathing settles like a pond after a thrown rock ripples through it. “Hhhh… hhhh… hh…”

I pull away, climbing to my feet. It takes Viv a moment, but she eventually turns around and offers an appreciative grin. She’s trying to be strong, but from the manic way she’s looking around, I can see she’s still freaked.

“Stop cage?” the hoist operator asks through the intercom.

Ignoring the question, I turn to Viv. “How you doing?”

“Yeah,” she replies, sitting up straight, trying to convince me she’s fine.

“It wasn’t a yes-or-no question,” I say. “Now, you wanna try again? How you doing?”

“O-Okay,” she admits, biting her bottom lip.

That’s all I need to hear. I head for the intercom. “Hoist, you there?”

“What’s the word?” the operator begins. “Everybody happy?”

“Actually, can you bring me back to the—”

“Don’t!” Viv calls out.

I let go of the intercom and stare her down.

“We’re here,” Viv pleads. “All you gotta do is lift the stupid door…”

“… after we get you back to the top.”

“Please, Harris—not after we got this far. Besides, you really think it’s safer up there than down here? Up top, I’m alone. You said it yourself: We shouldn’t separate. Those were your words, weren’t they? Stay together?”

I don’t bother to answer.

“Now, c’mon,” she continues. “We came all this way—to South Dakota… down eight thousand feet—you’re gonna turn back now?”

I stand there in silence. She knows what’s riding on this.

“You okay down there?” the operator asks through the intercom.

My eyes stay locked on Viv.

“I’m fine,” she promises. “Now tell her you’re alright before she starts to worry.”

“Sorry, Hoist,” I say into the intercom. “Just wanted to readjust some gear. All’s well. Stop cage.”

“Stop cage,” the operator repeats.

I raise the safety gate and give the outer door a shove. Like before, a hot wind seeps through the opening—but this time, the heat’s almost unbearable. My eyes burn as I squeeze them shut.

“W-What’s going on?” Viv asks behind me. From the sound of her voice, she’s still on the floor, crawling outside.

I push through the waterfall that drips from above the door and step out onto the dirt floor. Just like that, the vacuum of wind is gone, dissipating up the open shaft.

Blinking the dust from my eyes, I turn back to Viv, who still hasn’t stood up. She’s sitting on a plank of wood outside the cage and staring up at the ceiling.

Following her glance, I crane my neck up toward the highest part of the cave. The roof rises about thirty feet in the air and has an industrial light hanging from the center. “What’re you looking—?”

Oh.

“Is that doing what I think it’s doing?” Viv asks, still studying the ceiling.

Straight above us, a long black crevice cuts through the ceiling like a deep scar that’s about to split open. Indeed, the only things holding it together—and thereby keeping the ceiling from splitting open—are nine-foot-long strips of rusted steel that’re bolted to the roof like metal stitches across the crevice. From this distance, they look like the girders from an old Erector Set—lined with circular holes that the bolts are riveted into.

“I’m sure it’s just a precaution,” I say. “At this level… with all the pressure from above… they just don’t want a cave-in. For all we know, it’s just a simple crack.”

She nods at the explanation but doesn’t move from her plank-of-wood seat.

In front of me, the ceiling lowers and the walls narrow like a wormhole. It can’t be more than nine feet high, and just wide enough for a tiny car. Along the muddy floor, I follow the ancient metal train tracks. They’re more compact than standard tracks, but they’re in good enough shape to tell me how the miners are moving all that computer equipment through the mine.

When I was twelve, Nick Chiarmonte’s dad took our entire sixth-grade class to Clarion, Pennsylvania, to tour a working coal mine. We got to go a hundred feet below the surface, which back then felt like we were burrowing toward the very center of the earth. When we got to the bottom, Nick’s dad said a mine was a living organism no different from the human body—a main central artery with dozens of intersecting branches that move the blood to and from the heart. It’s no different here. The train tracks run straight ahead, then branch out like spokes on a wheel—a dozen tunnels in a dozen different directions.

I eye each one, searching to see if any of them are different. The mud on most of the tracks is caked and dried. But in the far left tunnel, it’s soaking wet, complete with a Sherlock Holmes boot print from the group that came down right before us. It’s not much of a lead, but right now it’s all we’ve got.

“You ready?” I call back to Viv. She doesn’t budge.

“C’mon…” I call again.

She’s motionless.

“Viv, you coming or not?”

Shaking her head, she refuses to look up. “I’m sorry, Harris. I can’t…”

“Whattya mean, you can’t?”

“I can’t,” she insists, curling her knees toward her chin. “I just… I can’t…”

“You said you were okay.”

“No, I said I didn’t want to be upstairs all by myself.” It’s the first time she faces me. Beads of sweat dot her face—even more than before. It’s not just from the heat.

Viv looks up at the crack in the roof, then over at an emergency medical stretcher that’s leaning against the wall. Bolted above that is a metal utility box with a sign that says: In case of serious injury, open box and remove blanket. Right now, as the temperature rises past a hundred, a blanket’s the last thing we need—but Viv can’t take her eyes off it.

“You should go,” she blurts.

“No… if we split up—”

“Please, Harris. Just go…”

“Viv, I’m not the only one who thinks you can do it—your mom—”

“Please don’t bring her up… not now…”

“But if you—”

“Go,” she insists, fighting back tears. “Find what they’re doing.”

With everything we’ve been through in the past forty-eight hours, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Viv Parker completely paralyzed. I’m not sure if it’s the claustrophobia, her hyperventilating on the elevator, or just the simple, stark grasp of her own limitations, but as Viv buries her face in her knees, I’m reminded that the worst beatings we take are the ones we give ourselves.

“Viv, if it makes you feel better, no one else would’ve made it this far. Nobody.”

Her head stays buried in her knees.

It wasn’t until my senior year of college—when my dad died—that I realized I wasn’t invulnerable. Viv’s learning it at seventeen. Of all the things I’ve taken from her, this is the one I’ll always hate myself for.

I turn to leave, sloshing through the wet mud.

“Take this,” she calls out. In her hand, she holds up the oxygen detector.

“Actually, you should keep it here—just in case th—” She wings it through the air, directly at me. As I catch it, there’s a loud screeching noise behind her. The cage rumbles back to life, rising up the elevator shaft and disappearing through the ceiling. Last plane out.

“If you want to leave,” I tell her, “just pick up the receiver and dial the—”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she insists. Even now she won’t completely give up. “Just find what they’re doing,” she says for the second time.

I nod her way, and my helmet light draws an imaginary line up and down her face. As I spin back toward the tunnels, it’s the last good look I get.

41

SO CAN I GET YOU a room?” the woman behind the motel’s front desk asked.

“Actually, I’m just looking for my friends,” Janos replied. “Have you seen—”

“Doesn’t anyone just want to rent a room anymore?”

Janos cocked his head slightly to the side. “Have you seen my friends—a white guy and a young black girl?”

The woman cocked her head right back. “Those’re your friends?”

“Yes. They’re my friends.”

The woman was suddenly quiet.

“They’re my friends from work—we were supposed to fly in together last night, but I got delayed and—” Janos cut himself off. “Listen, I got up at four A.M. for my flight this morning. Now are they upstairs or not? We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”

“Sorry,” the woman said. “They already checked out.”

Janos nodded. He figured as much, but he had to be sure. “So they’re already up there?” he added, pointing at the tall triangular building at the top of the hill.

“Actually, I thought they said they were headed to Mount Rushmore first.”

Janos couldn’t help but grin. Nice try, Harris.

“They left over an hour ago,” the woman added. “But if you hurry, I’m sure you can catch them.”

Nodding to himself, Janos stayed locked on the headframe as he headed for the door. “Yeah… I’m sure I can.”

42

TEN MINUTES LATER, I’m ankle-deep in runny mud that, as my light hits it, shines with a metallic rust color. I assume it’s just oil runoff from the engine that runs along the tracks, but to be safe, I stick to the sides of the cave, where the mud flow is lightest. All around me, the walls of the rocky cave are a patchwork of colors—brown, gray, rust, mossy green, and even some veins of white zigzag through them. Straight ahead, my light bounces off the jagged curves of the tunnel, slicing through the darkness like a spotlight through a black forest. It’s all I’ve got. One candle in a sea of silent darkness.

The only thing making it worse is what I can actually see. Up above, along the ceiling of the tunnel, the rustiest pipes I’ve ever seen in my entire life are slick with water. It’s the same on the walls and the rest of the ceiling. At this depth, the air is so hot and humid, the cave itself sweats. And so do I. Every minute or so, a new wave of heat plows through the tunnel, dissipates, and starts again. In… and out. In… and out. It’s like the mine is breathing. At this depth, the air pressure forces its way to the nearest blowhole, and as another huge belch of heat vomits up through the shaft, I can’t help but feel that if this is the mouth of the mine, I’m standing right on its tongue.

As I move in deeper, another burning yawn hits, even hotter than before. I feel it against my legs… my arms… at this point, even my teeth are sweating. I roll up my sleeves, but it doesn’t do any good. I was wrong before—this isn’t a sauna. With this heat… it’s an oven.

Feeling my breathing quicken, and hoping it’s just from the temperature, I glance down at the oxygen detector: 18.8%. On the back, it says I need sixteen percent to live. The footprints ahead of me tell me at least two others have made the trek. For now, that’s good enough for me.

Wiping the newest layer of sweat from my face, I spend ten minutes following the curve of the railroad tracks back through the tunnel—but unlike the brown and gray dreariness of the other parts, the walls back here are filled with red and white graffiti spray-painted directly on the rock: Ramp This Way… Lift Straight Ahead… 7850 Ramp… Danger Blasting. Each sign has an arrow pointing in a specific direction—but it’s not until I follow the arrows that I finally realize why. Up ahead, my light doesn’t disappear up the never-ending tunnel. Instead, it hits a wall. The straightaway’s over. Now there’s a fork in the road with five different choices. Shining the light on each one, I reread the signs and examine each new tunnel. Like before, four of them are caked in dried mud, while one’s wet and fresh. Danger Blasting. Damn.

Retracing my steps, I open my wallet, pull out my bright pink California Tortilla Burrito Club card, and wedge it under a rock by the entrance of the tunnel I just left—the mining equivalent of leaving bread crumbs. If I can’t find my way out, it doesn’t matter how far in I get.

Following the sign that says Danger Blasting, I make a sharp right into the tunnel, which I quickly realize is slightly wider than the rest. From there, I stick with the train tracks, following the soupy mud through a fork that goes left, and another that goes right. Spray-painted signs again point to Lift and 7850 Ramp, but the arrows are now pointing in different directions. To be safe, I put down more bread crumbs at each turn. My Triple-A card at the first left, the scrap of paper that holds my list of movies to rent at the next right. The distances aren’t far, but even after two minutes, the jagged walls… the muddy train tracks—everything in every direction looks alike. Without the wallet bread crumbs, I’d be lost in this labyrinth—and even with them, I’m still half expecting to turn the corner and be back by Viv. But as I make a left and wedge my gym membership card under a rock, my eye catches something I’ve never seen before.

Dead ahead… less than thirty feet… the tunnel widens slightly on the right, making space for a narrow turnoff that holds a bright red mining car that looks like an ice-cream pushcart with a sail attached to the roof. Up close, the sail is nothing more than a plastic shower curtain, and on top, the cart is sealed by a circular door that looks like a hatch on a ship, complete with one of those rotating steering wheel twist locks. There’s clearly something inside—and whatever it is, if it’s important enough to put a lock on it, it’s important enough for me to open.

Shoving the sail out of the way, I grip the steering wheel with both hands and give it a hard twist. Red paint cracks off in my hands, but the hatch lets out a metal thunk. With a strong tug, I crack the hatch and pull it open. The smell hits me first. Stronger than the acidic stench of vomit… sharper than bad cheese… Ugggh… Crap. Literally.

Inside the hatch is a mound of juicy brown lumps. The whole cart’s filled with shit. Tons of it. Stumbling backward, I hold my nose and fight to keep myself from throwing up. Too late. My stomach heaves, my throat erupts, and a firehose of last night’s grilled cheese sprays across the earth. Bent over and grabbing my gut, I spray the ground two more times. All the blood rushes to my face as I spit out the last few chunks. My body lurches with one final dry heave… then another. By the time I open my eyes, my light’s shining off the long, extended strand of drool that dangles from my lower lip. I glance back up at the wagon, and it finally makes sense. The shower curtain’s for privacy; the hatch is the seat. Even this far underground, these guys still need a bathroom.

Banging into the back wall, I fight for balance, my face still scrunched up from the whiff. I didn’t have time to close the hatch, and there’s no way I’m getting close enough to do it now. With a sharp shove, I push myself away from the wall and stagger back up the tunnel. On my left, there’s a shallow hole dug into the wall. My light shines directly into it, casting deep shadows along the jagged fangs of the hole. The light’s almost yellow in color. But as I pass the hole and continue even further into the cave, I’m surprised to see that the yellow tint is still there.

Oh, no—don’t tell me it’s—

A high-pitched buzz erupts above my forehead. I immediately look up—but it doesn’t take long to realize the sound’s coming from my helmet. In front of me, the yellow glow from my light takes on an almost gold color. Before, I could see at least fifty feet in front of me. Now it’s down to thirty. I pull the helmet off my head and stare into the mine light. It pulses slightly, its color fading. I don’t believe it. My hands start shaking, the light quivers back and forth, and I stare down at the battery pack on my tool belt. Viv was right about the charging station… The problem is, as the light on my helmet hums once more and fades to a brown, it’s becoming increasingly clear I picked the wrong side.

Spinning around as quickly as I can, I tell myself not to panic—but I can already feel the tightening in my chest. My breathing rises and falls at lightspeed, trying to compensate. I look up… down… side to side… The world’s starting to shrink. Along the walls and floor, the shadows creep in closer. I can barely see back to the red wagon in the distance. If I don’t get out of here fast…

Darting forward, I sprint full speed back the way I came, but the thousands of rocks underfoot make it even harder to run than I thought. My ankles bend and turn with every step, fighting for traction. As the walls of the tunnel blur by, the helmet light jerks wildly in front of me, struggling to slice through the darkness like a dying flashlight through a cloud of black smoke. Worst of all, my breathing’s at full gallop. I’m not sure if it’s the depth of the mine or just plain fear, but within a minute, I’m completely winded. I’ve run marathons. This can’t be…

A sharp burst of air leaves my lips, sending dust twirling through my still-fading light. I breathe in… then exhale just as fast. I can’t slow it down. I’m already feeling light-headed. No, don’t pass out. Stay calm, I beg myself. I don’t have a chance. I glance down at the oxygen detector, but before I can get a look, my foot clips a rock, and my ankle twists out from under me. Falling forward, I drop the detector and put out my hands to break my fall. With a crash, I skid across the ground, getting a fresh mouthful of dirt and a sting in my left wrist. I can still move it. Just a sprain. My mine light fades to amber, and I lose another eight feet of visual distance. Scrambling to my feet, I don’t even bother to stop for the detector. If I don’t get out of here now… Don’t even think about it.

Picking up speed, I focus on the white gym membership card that’s dead ahead. Those bread crumbs are my only way out. My light shrinks to a fading candle. I can barely see twenty feet. At this rate, I don’t think I’ve got another thirty seconds.

Locked on the gym card, I have to squint to see. There’s no time to take it slow—I’ve still got ten feet before I reach the archway it marks. If I can get through there, I can at least get one last look at the other bread crumbs so I know where to turn. The candle flickers, and it takes everything I have to ignore the burning pain in my chest. Almost there…

To make it easier, I hold my breath, my eyes glued to the archway. Don’t let it go. Don’t lose it. As the light shrivels, I lean forward. I’m still not there—and as my hand reaches out for the opening in front of me, the entire cave and everything in it goes completely… and utterly… black.

43

WELCOME TO TWO QUAIL,” the maître d’ said as he cupped his hands together. “Do you have a—”

“It should be under Holcomb,” Barry interrupted with perfect charm. “Party of two…”

“Holcomb… Holcomb…” the maître d’ repeated, his glance lingering a second too long on Barry’s glass eye. “Of course, sir. The window table. Right this way.” Extending his arm to the left, he pointed Barry toward a meticulously set table that sat in a small, private nook at the front of the restaurant. Barry turned his head but didn’t take a step.

“Sir, shall I—?”

“We’ll be fine,” Dinah said, holding Barry’s elbow and walking him toward the table. “Thank you for offering.”

As Barry tapped his cane, Dinah glanced around the restaurant, which was decorated to evoke the feeling of an eclectic but wealthy family home. Unmatched silverware and antique furniture gave it plenty of charm; its location within walking distance of the Capitol gave it plenty of lobbyist clients.

With a quick pat-down of the table and its two ultra-hip chairs—one wing-back, one art deco—Barry motioned for Dinah to sit, then took the seat opposite her.

“The waiter will be with you shortly,” the maître d’ added. “And if you need additional privacy…” With a sharp pull, he tugged a cord by the wall, and a burgundy velvet curtain slid into place, separating the nook from every other table in the restaurant. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“So what do you think?” Barry asked.

Dinah craned her neck, staring through a thin opening in the curtain. She didn’t usually eat in places like this. Not on a government salary. “How’d you find this place?” she said.

“I actually read about it in a book.”

Dinah was silent.

“Why, you don’t like it?” Barry added.

“No… it’s fine… it’s great… I just… after Matthew…”

“Dinah…”

“He should be the one sitting here.”

“Dinah…”

“I can’t help it… our desks are so close they’re almost on top of each other—every time I look over at his stuff, I just keep… I keep seeing him. I close my eyes and…”

“… and he’s standing right there, hunched over and scratching at that bird’s nest of blond hair. You think I don’t feel the exact same thing? I spoke to his mom the day it happened. And then Pasternak. That alone… I haven’t slept in three nights, Dinah. They’ve been my friends for years—ever since—” Barry’s voice cracked, and he stopped himself.

“Barry…”

“Maybe we should just get out of here,” he said, standing to leave.

“No, don’t…” She reached for his sleeve and held tight.

“You said it yourself.”

“Just sit,” she begged. “Please… just sit.”

Slowly, cautiously, Barry made his way back to his seat.

“It’s hard,” she said. “We both know that. Let’s just take some time and… Let’s just try to have a nice lunch.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely,” she said as she picked up her water glass. “Let’s not forget—even with all this, we’ve still got a big day ahead.”

44

AS THE DARKNESS HITS, I keep my arm outstretched in front of me to stop myself from ramming into the wall. I never get there. My foot sinks into a divot, and I lurch off balance. Crashing into the ground, my knees tear across the rocky floor, making me feel every stray, pointy pebble. From the loud rip and the sudden pain across my kneecaps, I feel another fresh hole slice through my pants. I again put my hands out to break my fall, but the momentum’s too much. Sliding headfirst into home plate, I face-plant across the gravel as the rocks roll against my chest. By the time I open my eyes, I taste my ever-present mouthful of dust and dirt, but this time, I can’t see it. I can’t see anything. Anything.

Coughing violently and still fighting to catch my breath, I feel a final hunk of yesterday’s grilled cheese hurl up my esophagus and slam into the back of my teeth. I spit it out and hear the wet splat against the floor. Lying on the ground until my breathing settles, I keep my eyes shut, trying to take a small victory in the fact that I at least was smart enough to leave bread crumbs. It doesn’t do any good. The darkness is already overwhelming. I hold my hand to my face, but nothing’s in front of me. I bring it close enough that I’m touching my eyebrows. Still nothing. This isn’t like shutting the lights in your bedroom and waiting for your eyes to adjust. I wave my hand back and forth. It’s like it doesn’t even exist. Still fighting for proof, I close my eyes, then open them. No difference.

The light is gone. But sound is an entirely different story.

“Viv!” I call out, shouting through the tunnels. “Viv, can you hear me?!”

My voice echoes through the chamber, eventually dying in the distance. The question goes unanswered.

“Viv! I need help! Are you there?”

Again, my question fades and dies. For all I know, she took the elevator back to the top.

“Is anyone here?!” I scream as loud as I can.

The only sound I hear is my own labored breathing and the grinding of rocks as I shift my weight. I grew up in a rural town of less than five hundred people, yet I’ve never heard the world as silent as it is right now, eight thousand feet below the earth. If I plan on getting out of here, I’m gonna have to do it myself.

Instinctively I start to stand up, but quickly change my mind and sit back down again. I’m pretty sure the archway that’ll lead me back to the earlier part of the tunnel is in front of me, but until I’m positive, I’d better not wander around in the dark. The only thing helping me grab my bearings is the bitter smell of feces coming from the nearby wagon. As I follow the smell and trace it to the left, I’m crawling on all fours and patting the rocky ground like I’m looking for a lost contact lens. The smell is so awful, it’s starting to make my eyes water, but right now that pile of reeky shit is the only beacon I’ve got.

Crawling forward, I hold one hand out, petting the air and searching for the wagon. If I can find it, I’ll at least know which way is out. Or at least, that’s the plan. My fingertips quickly collide with the jagged edges of a sharp, wet rock. But as I open my hand to get a better feel, I trace it upward, and it just keeps going. It’s not a rock. It’s the whole wall.

Tapping the floor slightly, I search for the wagon, but it’s not there. It was on my right as I was coming in, so to get out, I keep heading left, feeling my way. Over my shoulder, there’s a metallic twang as my foot collides with something behind me. Still on all fours, I reach back and pat my way along the ground until I feel the thin spokes of the red wagon’s wheels. It doesn’t make sense.

I freeze right there, putting both hands flat against the dirt floor. The wagon’s supposed to be on my left. I reach out and feel it again. It’s on my right. I’m completely turned around. Worst of all, I’m headed the wrong way, deeper into the tunnel and away from the exit. I close my eyes, already dizzy from the darkness. The smell seems like it’s coming from everywhere. Ten steps and I’m already lost.

Spinning around and searching for security, I frantically braille my way across the ground and crawl forward. With one extended stretch, I reach out in front of me and feel the rest of the red wagon. The scabby edges of chipped metal. The rounded curves of the wheels. Even though I can’t actually see it, my mind mentally puts the puzzle pieces together, showing me a perfect view. To my own surprise, I erupt with an anxious laugh. Copping one feel after another, my fingers soak up every sharp corner and dented curve, caressing the base of the wagon and rubbing the frayed edges of the plastic shower curtain between my thumb and pointer finger. It’s an amazing sensation to take it all in by touch—and I can’t help but wonder if this is how Barry feels.

Anxious to get out, I palm my way across the wagon until I find the jagged wall. As my left hand stays with the wall, my right hand sweeps back and forth like a human metal detector, brushing the ground and making sure I don’t hit another divot. Still crawling, I make a sharp right through the archway at the mouth of the cave. If I wanted, I could stick with the train tracks that run down the center, but right now, the wall somehow feels more stable and secure.

Twenty-five feet later, my knees are aching, the stench is fading, and an opening on my right leads to a parallel tunnel where I can go right or left. There are openings like this in every direction, but I’m pretty sure this is the one that dumped me here. Palming the curved edge of the chunky, muddy threshold, I follow it down to the ground, searching for the scrap of paper I left behind. The list of movies I want to rent is somewhere along the floor. If I can find it, it means I have a chance of following the rest of my bread crumbs back.

Using just my fingertips, I lightly pat the rocky earth, systematically sifting through the pebbles at the base of the threshold. I work from the right-hand side of the opening to the left. I’m bent so close to the ground, blood starts rushing to my head. The pressure builds at the center of my forehead. The list of movies is nowhere to be found. For five minutes, my fingers massage the rocks as I listen for a crinkle. It never comes. Still, I don’t need a scrap of paper to tell me I made a right-hand turn into this section of the tunnel. Feeling my way, I palm the wall, find the edge of the archway, and follow it out to the left.

Heading further up the hallway and crawling diagonally across the train tracks, I reach out in the darkness for the right-hand wall. It should be right in front of me… I stretch out my arm all the way… reaching… reaching… But for some reason, the wall isn’t there. I stop midcrawl and grip the train tracks. If I took a wrong turn…

“Viv!” I call out.

No one answers.

Struggling to get my bearings, I close my eyes in the hope that it’ll be less dizzying. I keep telling myself it’s just a dark tunnel, but in this much darkness, I feel like I’m crawling through my own elongated coffin. My nails dig through the dirt for no other reason than to convince myself there’s no coffin and I’m not trapped. But I am.

“Viv!” I shout again, begging for help.

Still nothing.

Refusing to panic, I scootch around on my butt and slowly extend my leg out as far as it goes. The wall’s gotta be here somewhere. It has to be. I point my toes outward, sliding further from the tracks. Thousands of pebbles grumble underneath me. For all I know, I’m dangling my entire leg into an open hole. But if the wall’s really here—and I’m pretty sure it is—it’ll… Thunk.

There we go.

Keeping my foot pressed against the wall, but still lying on my back, I let go of the train track, lean forward, and hug the wetness of the wall with my hands. I keep patting it and patting it, just to make sure it’s there. It’s exactly where I thought it was—I just can’t believe how much my spatial relations are off. Still huffing and puffing, I let out a deep breath, but my mouth is so close to the wall, I feel a whirlwind of excess dirt and water ricochet back in my face. Coughing uncontrollably, I turn my head, blinking the dirt from my eyes and spitting the rest from my mouth.

Back on my knees, it takes me two minutes to crawl along the rubble, my right hand petting the wall, my left hand tracing the ground for any other surprises. Even when I can feel what’s coming—even when I know it’s just another pile of loose rock—each movement is like closing your eyes and reaching the bottom step on a staircase. You tentatively put your foot out for the final step, but you never know where it’s gonna be. And even when you find it, you still keep tapping against the floor—not just to be safe, but because, for that one unnerving moment, you don’t completely trust your senses.

Finally feeling the rounded curve of the archway as the cave tunnel opens up on my right, I pat the floor, searching for my Triple-A card. Like before, I don’t have a prayer—but unlike last time, I’m done memorizing lefts and rights. This is the cavern with five different tunnels to choose from. I pick the wrong one, and this place really will be my coffin.

“Viv!” I call out, crawling into the room. The whole world is tar. “Please, Viv—are you there?!”

I hold my breath and listen as my plea echoes down each of the tunnels. It rumbles everywhere at once. The original surround sound. Holding my breath and digging my nails into the dirt, I wait for a response. No matter how faint, I don’t want to miss it. But as my own voice reverberates and disappears down the labyrinth, I’m once again buried in underground silence. I look around, but the view doesn’t change. It only adds to my dizziness. The merry-go-round’s started, and I can’t make it stop.

“Viv!” I cry again in the opposite direction. “Anybody! Please!”

The echo trails off like the wispy tail of a ghost in my old childhood nightmares. Swallowed by the darkness. Just like me.

There’s no up, down, left, or right. The world teeters sideways as dizziness flips to vertigo. I’m on all fours but still can’t hold my balance. My forehead feels like it’s about to explode.

With a crash, I fall on my side. My cheek rolls into the rocks. It’s the only thing that tells me where the ground is. There’s nothing but ink in every direction—and then, out of the corner of my eye, I spot tiny, tiny flashes of silver light. They only last a second—bursts of sparkles, like when you shut your eyes too tight. But even as I turn my head to follow the glow, I know it’s just my imagination. I’ve heard of this before… when your eyes are deprived of light for too long. Miner mirages.

“Harris…?” a voice whispers in the distance.

I assume it’s another trick of my imagination. That is, until it starts talking back.

“Harris, I can’t hear you!” it shouts. “Say something else!”

“Viv?”

“Say something else!” Her voice echoes through the room. It’s hard to pinpoint the direction.

“Viv, is that you?!”

“Keep talking! Where are you?”

“In the dark—my light went out!”

There’s a one-second pause, like there’s a time delay on her voice. “You okay?”

“I need you to come get me!”

“What?”

“Come get me!” I shout.

The pause is still there. “I can’t!” she yells. “Just follow the light!”

“There is no light! I turned too many corners—c’mon, Viv, I can’t see!”

“Then follow my voice!”

“Viv!”

“Just follow it!” she pleads.

“Are you listening?! It’s bouncing through every tunnel!” I stop and pause, keeping my sentences short, so the echo doesn’t interfere. She needs to hear what I’m saying. “It’s too dark! If I take the wrong turn, you’ll never find me!”

“So I should get lost with you?!” she says.

“You have a light!”

“Harris…!”

“You have a light! We’re running out of time!”

Her pause is even longer. She knows what I’m getting at. The longer she waits, the less likely we’ll be alone down here. We’ve been lucky so far, but when it comes to Janos, it can’t last.

“Don’t be afraid, Viv! It’s just a tunnel!”

This time, the pause is her longest yet. “If this is a trick…!”

“It’s not a trick! I need help…!”

She knows I’m not playing around. Besides, as the Senator always says when he’s talking about our top donors, “Even when they tell you the well is dry, if you dig a little deeper, there’s always a little something tucked back in reserve.”

“You really need me to come there?” she asks, her voice shaking.

“I can’t move,” I call back. “Viv… Please…”

As I lie in the darkness, the cave once again goes silent. Just the thought of heading into the darkness… especially by herself… I saw the pain in her eyes before. She’s terrified.

“Viv, you still there?!”

She doesn’t answer. Not a good sign. The silence keeps going, and I can’t help but think that even the reserves are long dry. She’s probably curled on the ground and—

“Which of these tunnels do I take?!” she shouts, her voice booming through the caves.

I sit up straight, my hands still in the dirt. “You’re the greatest, Viv Parker!”

“I’m not joking, Harris! Which way do I go?”

Her voice is far off in the distance, but there’s no mistaking her desperate tone. This isn’t easy for her.

“The one with the freshest mud! Look for my footprints!” My voice echoes through the chamber, fading into nothing.

“Did you find it?” I ask.

Again my voice fades away. It all comes down to a seventeen-year-old girl with a flashlight on her head.

“You have tiny feet!” she calls back.

I try to smile, but we both know she’s got a long way to go. Back by the cage, there’s still the big industrial light up by the ceiling. Not for long. That light will be out of her sight any—

“Harris…!”

“You can do it, Viv! Pretend you’re in a fun-house!”

“I hate fun-houses! They scare the crap outta me!”

“How about the Tilt-A-Whirl? Everyone likes the Tilt-A-Whirl!”

“Harris, it’s too dark!”

The pep talk’s not working.

“I can barely see…!”

“Your eyes’ll adjust!”

“The ceiling—!” she screams. Her voice gets cut off.

I give her a second, but nothing comes back.

“Viv, everything okay?”

No response.

“Viv…? Are you there?!”

Dead silence.

“VIV!” I shout at the top of my lungs, just to make sure she hears it.

Still nothing.

My jaw tightens, the silence sinks in, and for the first time since I left, I start wondering if we’re the only ones down here. If Janos caught a different flight—

“Just keep talking, Harris!” her voice finally rings through the air. She must’ve entered the main stretch of tunnel. Her voice is clearer… less of an echo.

“Are you—?”

“Just keep talking!” she shouts, stuttering slightly. Something’s definitely wrong. I tell myself it’s just her fear of being trapped underground, but as the silence once again descends, I can’t help but think it’s something worse. “Tell me about work… your parents… anything…” she begs. Whatever else is going on, she needs something to take her mind off it.

“M-My first day in the Senate,” I begin, “I was riding the metro to work, and as I got on board, there was an ad—I forget what it was for—but the ad said, Reach Beyond Yourself. I remember staring at it the entire—”

“Don’t give me locker room speeches—I saw Rudy!” she shouts. “Tell me something real!”

It’s a simple request, but I’m surprised how long it takes me to come up with an answer.

“Harris…!”

“I make breakfast for Senator Stevens every morning!” I blurt. “When we’re in session, I have to pick him up at his house at seven A.M., go inside, and make him Cracklin’ Oat Bran with fresh blueberries…”

There’s a short pause.

“You serious?” Viv asks. She’s still wavering, but I hear the laughter in the back of her throat.

I smile to myself. “The man’s so insecure, he makes me walk him to every vote on the Floor, just in case he’s cornered by another Member. And he’s so cheap, he doesn’t even go to dinner anymore without bringing a lobbyist. That way, he doesn’t have to pick up the bill…”

After the pause, I hear a single word from Viv: “More…”

“Last month, Stevens turned sixty-three… We threw four different birthday parties for him—each one a thousand-dollar-a-plate fundraiser—and at each one, we told the invitees it was the only party he was having. We spent fifty-nine thousand on salmon and some birthday cake—we raked in over two hundred grand…” I sit up on my knees, shouting into the darkness. “In his office, there’s a homerun baseball from when the Atlanta Braves won the World Series a few years back. It’s even signed by Jimmy Carter—but the Senator was never meant to keep it. They asked him to sign it, and he never gave it back.”

“You making that up…?”

“Two years ago, at a fundraiser, a lobbyist handed me a check for the Senator—I handed it back and said, ‘Not enough.’ Right to his face.”

I hear her laugh. That one she likes.

“When I finished college, I was such an idealist, I started and quickly dropped out of a graduate theological program. Even Matthew didn’t know that. I wanted to help people, but the God part kept getting in the way…”

From the silence, I know I’ve got her attention. I just have to bring her in. “I helped redraft the bankruptcy law, but since I’m still paying back my Duke loans, I have five different MasterCards,” I tell her. “My most distinctive memory from childhood is catching my dad crying in the boys’ department of Kmart because he couldn’t afford to buy me a three-pack of white Fruit of the Loom undershirts and had to buy the Kmart label instead…” My voice starts to sag. “I spend too much time worrying what other people think of me…”

“Everyone does,” Viv calls back.

“When I was in college, I worked in an ice-cream store, and when customers would snap their fingers to get my attention, I’d break off the bottom of their cone with a flick of my pinky, so when they were a block or two away, their ice cream would drip all over them…”

“Harris…”

“My real name is Harold, in high school they called me Harry, and when I got to college, I changed it to Harris because I thought it’d make me sound more like a leader… Next month—if I still have a job—even though I’m not supposed to, I’ll probably leak the name of the new Supreme Court nominee to the Washington Post just to prove I’m part of the loop… And for the past week, despite my best efforts to ignore it, I’m really feeling the fact that with Matthew and Pasternak gone, after ten years on Capitol Hill, there’s no one… I don’t have any real friends…”

As I say the words, I’m on my knees, cradling my stomach and curling down toward the floor. My head sinks so low, I feel the tips of the rocks press against my forehead. A sharp one digs in just under my hairline, but there’s no pain. There’s no anything. As the realization hits, I’m completely numb—as hollow as I’ve been since the day they unveiled my mom’s headstone. Right next to my dad’s.

“Harris…” Viv calls out.

“I’m sorry, Viv—that’s all I’ve got,” I reply. “Just follow the sound.”

“I’m trying,” she insists. But unlike before, her voice doesn’t boomerang through the room. It’s coming directly from my right. Picking up my head, I trace the noise just as the darkness cracks. Up ahead, the neck of the tunnel blinks into existence with the faint glow of light—like a lighthouse turning on in the midst of an ocean. I have to squint to adjust.

From the depths of the tunnel, the light turns my way, glowing at me.

I look away just long enough to collect my thoughts. By the time I turn back, I’ve got a smile pressed into place. But the way Viv’s light shines directly at me, I know what she sees.

“Harris, I’m really sorry…”

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“I didn’t ask how you were.” Her tone is soft and reassuring. There’s not an ounce of judgment in it.

I look up at her. The light’s glowing from the top of her head.

“What, you ain’t never seen a guardian angel with an Afro before? There’s like, fourteen of us up in Heaven.”

She turns her head so the light no longer blinds me. It’s the first time we make eye contact. I can’t help but grin. “Sweet Mocha…”

“… to the rescue,” she says, completing my thought. Standing over me, she lifts her arms like a bodybuilder, flexing her muscles. It’s not just the pose. Her shoulders are square. Her feet are planted deep. I couldn’t knock her over with a wrecking ball. Forget reserves—the well’s overflowing. “Now who’s ready to get down to Viv-ness?” she asks.

Extending a hand, she offers to pull me up. I’ve never been averse to accepting someone’s help, but as she wiggles her fingers and waits for me to take her up on it, I’m done worrying about every possible consequence. What do I owe her? What does she need? What’s this gonna cost me? After ten years in Washington, I’ve gotten to the point where I look suspiciously at the supermarket cashier when she offers paper or plastic. On the Hill, an offer for help is always about something else. I look up at Viv’s open hand. Not anymore.

Without hesitation, I reach upward. Viv grabs my hand in her own and gives me a hard tug to get me back on my feet. It’s exactly what I needed.

“I’ll never tell anyone, Harris.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

She thinks about it for a moment.

“Did you really do that thing with the ice-cream cones?”

“Only to the real jerk-offs.”

“So… uh… hypothetically, if I was working at some unnamed burger place, and some woman with a bad fake tan and some trendy haircut she saw in Cosmo came in and ripped my head off, telling me I’d be working there for the rest of my life—just because her food was taking too long—if I went in the back and theoretically hocked a back-of-the-throat loogie into her Diet Coke, then mixed it in with a bendy straw, would that make me a bad person?”

“Hypothetically? I’d say you get points for the bendy straw, but it’s still pretty darn gross.”

“Yeah,” she says proudly. “It was.” Looking at me, she adds, “Nobody’s perfect, Harris. Even if everyone else thinks you are.”

I nod, continuing to hold her hand. There’s only one light between us, but as long as we stay together, it’s more than enough. “So you ready to see what they’re digging for down here?” I ask.

“Do I have a choice?”

“You always have a choice.”

As she shoves her shoulders back, there’s a new confidence in her silhouette. Not from what she did for me—what she did for herself. She looks out toward the tunnel on my left, her mine light carving through the dark. “Just hurry up before I change my mind.”

I plow forward along the rocks, deeper into the cavern. “Thank you, Viv—I mean it… thanks.”

“Yeah, yeah, and more yeah.”

“I’m serious,” I add. “You won’t regret it.”

45

KICKING THROUGH THE gravel of the Homestead mine’s parking lot, Janos counted two motorcycles and a total of seventeen cars, most of them pickup trucks. Chevrolet… Ford… Chevrolet… GMC… All of them American-made. Janos shook his head. He understood the allegiance to a car, but not to a country. If the Germans bought the rights to build the Shelby Series One and moved the factory to Munich, the car would still be the car. A work of art.

Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket and taking another hard glance at the trucks in the lot, he slowly sifted through the details: mud-covered wheel wells… dented rear quarter panels… beat-up front clips. Even on the trucks that were in the best shape, stripped wheel nuts betrayed the wear and tear. Out of the whole lot, only two trucks looked like they had ever met a car wash: the Explorer that Janos drove… and the jet black Suburban parked in the far corner.

Janos slowly made his way toward the truck. South Dakota plates like everyone else’s. But from what he could tell, the locals didn’t buy their trucks in black. The beating from the sun was always too much of a paint risk. Executive cars, however, were an entirely different story. The President always rode in black. So did the VP and the Secret Service. And sometimes, if they were big enough names, so did a few Senators. And their staffs.

Janos lightly put his hand on the driver’s-side door, caressing the polished finish. His own reflection bounced back at him from the shine in the window, but from what he could tell, no one was inside. Behind him, he heard a crush of loose gravel and, in an eye blink, spun to follow the sound.

“Whoa, sorry—didn’t mean to surprise you,” the man in the Spring Break ’94 T-shirt said. “Just wanted to know if you needed some help.”

“I’m looking for my coworkers,” Janos said. “One’s about my height…”

“With the black girl—yeah, of course—I sent ’em inside,” Spring Break said. “So you’re from Wendell, too?”

“Inside where?” Janos asked, his voice as calm as ever.

“The dry,” the man said, pointing with his chin at the red brick building. “Follow the path—you can’t miss it.”

Waving good-bye with a salute from his mining helmet, the man headed back toward the construction trailers. And Janos marched straight toward the red brick building.

46

RETRACING MY STEPS, I take Viv on the quick tour to catch her up to date.

“They can run a phone line down here, but they can’t build an outhouse?” she asks as we pass the red wagon. With each step, she tries to maintain the brave face, but the way her sweaty hand is gripping my own… the way she’s always at least a half-step or so behind me, it’s clear adrenaline fades fast. When she picks up the oxygen detector from the floor and looks down at the readout, I expect her to stop dead in her tracks. She doesn’t. But she does slow down.

“18.8?” she asks. “What happened to the 19.6 from the elevator?”

“The cage connects to the surface—it has to be higher up there. Believe me, Viv, I’m not going anywhere that’ll put us in danger.”

“Really?” she challenges. She’s done taking my word for it. “So where we are right now—this is no different than strolling by the Jefferson Memorial, taking photos with the cherry blossoms?”

“If it makes you feel better, the cherry blossoms don’t bloom until April.”

She looks around at the dark, mossy walls that’re splattered with mud. Then she shines the light in my face. I decide not to push back. For five minutes, we continue to weave slowly through the darkness. The ground slants slightly downward. As the never-ending hole takes us even deeper, the temperature keeps getting hotter. Viv’s behind me, trying to stay silent, but between the heat and the sticky air, she’s once again breathing heavy.

“You sure you’re…?”

“Just keep going,” she insists.

For the next two hundred or so feet, I don’t say a word. It’s even hotter than when we started, but Viv doesn’t complain. “You okay back there?” I finally ask.

She nods behind me, and her light stretches out in front of us, bouncing up and down with the movements of her head. On the wall is another red spray-painted sign marked Lift, with an arrow pointing to a tunnel on our right.

“You sure we’re not going in circles?” she asks. “The ground keeps going down,” I tell her. “I think most of these places are required to have a second elevator as a precaution—that way, if something goes wrong with one, no one gets trapped down here.”

It’s a nice theory, but it doesn’t slow Viv’s breathing. Before I can say another word, there’s a familiar tinkle in the distance.

“Leaky faucet?” Viv whispers.

“No question, it’s running water…” The sound’s too faint to trace. “I think it’s coming from up there,” I add as she points her light in the distance.

“You sure?” she asks, checking behind us.

“It’s definitely up there,” I say, rushing forward and trying to follow the sound.

“Harris, wait…!”

I start to run. A series of ear-splitting chirps rips through the air. The sound is deafening, like a nuclear assault warning. I freeze and look around. If we tripped an alarm…

Deeper down the tunnel, a bright headlight ignites, and an engine rumbles to life. It was down here all along, hidden in the dark. Before we can even react, it barrels toward us like an oncoming freight train.

Viv tries to take off. I tug her back by the wrist. The thing’s moving so fast, we’ll never outrun it. Better that we not look guilty.

The metal brakes grind to a halt a few feet in front of us. I follow Viv’s light as it shines across the side of the banged-up yellow car and the man who’s sitting inside it. The car looks like a miniature train engine without the roof. There’s a large spotlight attached to the hood. Behind the wheel is a bearded middle-aged man in a ratty old pair of overalls. He shuts the engine, and the chirping finally stops.

“Sorry about the heat—we’ll have it fixed up in the next few hours,” he offers.

“Fixed?”

“You think we like it like this?” he asks, using his mine light to circle the walls and ceiling. “We’re a belch shy of a hundred and thirty degrees…” He laughs to himself. “Even for eight thousand, that’s hot.” I quickly recognize the flat South Dakota accent of the man who came down in the cage before us. Garth, I think. Definitely Garth. But what catches my attention isn’t his name—it’s the tone in his voice. He’s not attacking. He’s apologizing. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “We got this at the top of the list.”

“Th-That’s great,” I reply.

“And now that the air conditioner and exhaust’s in place, we’ll have you seeing your breath in no time. You won’t be sweating like that anymore,” he adds, motioning to our soaked shirts.

“Thanks,” I laugh back, anxious to change the subject.

“No, thank you—if it weren’t for you guys, this place woulda still been boarded up. Once the gold was plucked, we didn’t think we had a shot.”

“Yeah, well… happy to help, Garth.” I throw in his name to get his attention—and to keep him from staring at Viv. As always, it does the trick. “So how’s it look otherwise?” I ask as he turns back to me.

“Right on time. You’ll see when you get down there. Everything’s in place,” he explains. “I should really get back, though… We got another shipment coming in. I just wanted to make sure we had the space ready.”

With a wave, he gets back in the man-car and starts the engine. The shrill scream of the chirping pierces the entire tunnel. Just a warning system as he drives through the dark—like the beeping sound when a big truck goes in reverse. As he races past us, the chirping fades just as fast.

“Whattya think?” Viv asks as I watch him disappear in the darkness.

“No idea. But from the sound of it, there’s no gold left down here.”

Nodding, Viv heads deeper into the mine. I stay with the man-car, making sure it’s gone.

“By the way, how’d you remember his name?” she adds.

“I don’t know—I’m just good with names.”

“See, nobody likes people like that.”

Behind me, I hear her feet crunching against the rocks. I’m still focused on the man-car. It’s almost gone.

“Hey, Harris…” she calls out.

“Hold on, I want to make sure he’s—”

“Harris, I think you should take a look at this…”

“C’mon, Viv—just gimme a second.”

Her voice is dry and flat. “Harris, I think you should take a look at this now…”

I turn around, rolling my eyes. If she’s still worried about the—

Oh, jeez.

Up ahead… at the very end of the tunnel… I have to squint to make sure I’m seeing it right. The man-car was blocking it before, but now that it’s gone, we’ve got a clear view. Down at the lowest part of the tunnel, two brand-new shiny steel doors gleam in the distance. There’s a circular glass window cut into each one, and while we’re too far to see through them, there’s no mistaking the bright white glow that seeps out through the glass. Two pinholes in the darkness—like the fiery white eyes of the Cheshire cat.

“C’mon…” Viv calls out, dashing toward the doors.

“Wait!” I call out. It’s already too late. Her mine light bounces as she runs, and I chase behind the lightning bug as she weaves deeper into the cave.

The truth is, I don’t want to stop her. This is what we came for. The actual light at the end of the tunnel.

47

SLAMMING BOTH HANDS against the polished steel double doors, Viv pushes as hard as she can. They don’t budge. Behind her, I stand on my tiptoes to get a look through the windows, but the glass is opaque. We can’t see inside. The sign on the doors says, Warning: Authorized Personnel Only.

“Let me try,” I say as she steps aside. Shoving my shoulder against the center of the doors, I feel the right one give slightly, but it doesn’t go anywhere. As I step back for another pass, I see my warped reflection in the rivets. These things are brand-new.

“Hold on a second,” Viv calls out. “What about ringing the doorbell?”

On my right, built into the rock, is a metal plate with a thick black button. I was so focused on the door, I didn’t even see it. Viv reaches out to push it.

“Don’t—” I call out.

Again I’m too late. She rams her palm into the button.

There’s a tremendous hiss, and we both jump back. The double doors shudder, the hiss slowly exhales like a yawn, and two pneumatic air cylinders unfold their arms. The left door opens toward me; the right door goes the other way.

I crane my head to get a better look. “Viv…”

“I’m on it,” she says, pointing her light inside. But the only thing that’s there—about ten feet ahead—is another set of double doors. And another black button. Like the doors behind us, there’s a matching set of opaque windows. Whatever’s giving off that light is still inside.

I nod to Viv, who once again presses the black button. This time, though, nothing happens.

“Press it again,” I say.

“I am… It’s stuck.”

Behind us, there’s another loud hiss as the original steel doors begin to close. We’ll be locked in. Viv spins around, about to run. I stay where I am.

“It’s okay,” I say.

“What’re you talking about?” she asks, panicking. The doors are about to squeeze shut. This is our last chance to get out.

I scan the cave walls and the exposed rocky ceiling. No video cameras or any other security devices. A tiny sign on the top left-hand corner of the door says, Vapor-Tight Door. There we go.

“What?” Viv asks.

“It’s an air-lock.”

There’s less than an inch to go.

“A what?”

With a heavy thunk, the outer doors slam shut and the cylinders lock into place. A final, extended hiss whistles through the air, like an old-fashioned train settling into the station.

We’re now stuck between the two sets of doors. Twisting back to the black button, Viv pounds it as hard as she can.

There’s an even louder mechanical hiss as the doors in front of us rumble. Viv looks back at me. I expect her to be relieved. But the way her eyes jump around… She’s hiding it well, but she’s definitely scared. I don’t blame her.

As the doors churn open, a burst of bright light and a matching gust of cold wind come whipping through the hairline crack. It blows my hair back, and we both shut our eyes. The wind dies fast as the two zones equalize. I can already taste the difference in the air. Sweeter… almost sharp on my tongue. Instead of sucking in millions of dust particles, I feel a blast of icy air cooling my lungs. It’s like drinking from a dirty puddle, then having a glass of purified water. As I finally open my eyes, it takes me a few seconds to adjust. The light is too bright. I lower my eyes and blink back to normalcy.

The floor is bright white linoleum. Instead of a narrow tunnel, we’re in a wide-open, stark white room that’s bigger than an ice-skating rink. The ceiling rises to at least twenty feet, and the right-hand wall is covered with brand-new circuit breakers—top-notch electricals. Along the floor, hundreds of red, black, and green wires are bundled together in electronic braids that’re as thick as my neck. On my left, there’s an open alcove labeled Changing Station, complete with cubbies for dirty boots and mine helmets. Right now, though, the alcove’s filled with lab tables, a half-dozen bubble-wrapped computer hubs and routers, and two state-of-the-art slick, black computer servers. Whatever Wendell Mining is doing down here, they’re still setting up.

I turn to Viv. Her eyes are locked on the stacks of cardboard boxes piled all around the immaculate white room. On the side of each box, there’s one word written in black Magic Marker: Lab.

She looks down at the oxygen detector. “21.1 percent.”

Even better than what we had up top.

“What the hell’s going on?” she asks.

I shake my head, unable to answer. It doesn’t make any sense. I look around at the polished chrome and the marble tabletops and replay the question over and over in my head: What’s a multimillion-dollar laboratory doing eight thousand feet below the surface of the earth?

48

DOWN IN THE BASEMENT of the red brick building, Janos stopped at the charging station for the battery packs and mine lights. He’d been there once before—right after Sauls hired him. In the six months since, nothing had changed. Same depressing hallway, same low ceiling, same dirt-caked equipment.

Taking a closer look, he counted two openings in the charging station—one on each side. Thinking they were playing the odds, they gambled, he realized. That’s how it always is, especially when people are panicking. Everybody gambles.

As he moved further up the hallway, Janos stepped past the wooden benches and entered the large room with the elevator shaft. Avoiding the shaft, he headed for the wall with the phone and fire alarm. No one goes down without first making a call.

“Hoist…” the operator answered.

“Hey, there—was hoping you could help me out,” Janos said as he pressed the receiver to his ear. “I’m looking for some friends… two of them… and was just wondering if you sent them down in the cage, or if they’re still up top?”

“From Ramp Level, I sent one guy down, but I’m pretty sure he was alone.”

“You positive? He should’ve definitely been with someone…”

“Honey, all I do is move ’em up and down. Maybe his friend went in up top.”

Janos looked up through the elevator shaft at the level that was directly above. That’s where most people came in… but Harris and Viv… they’d be looking to keep it quiet. That’s why they would’ve followed the tunnel down here…

“You sure he didn’t just go down by himself?” the operator asked.

But just as Janos was about to answer, he stopped. His first wife called it intuition. His second wife called it lion’s instinct. Neither was right. It’d always been more cerebral that that. Don’t just follow your prey. Think like them. Harris and Viv were trapped. They’d be searching for a safety net… and they’d look everywhere to find it…

Gripping the edge of the short wall, Janos slid around to the opposite side, where a square piece of wood held fifty-two nails. He focused on the two metal tags labeled 15 and 27. Two tags. They were still together.

Swiping both tags from the board, he looked down at them in his hand. Everybody gambles, he said to himself—but what’s most important to remember is that at some point, everybody also loses.

49

THINK THEY KNOW we’re here?” Viv asks, shutting off her mine light.

I look around, checking the corners of the laboratory. The brackets are attached to the wall, and exposed wiring dangles down, but the surveillance cameras aren’t up yet. “I think we’re clear.”

As I said, she’s done taking my word for it. “Hello… anyone home?” she calls out.

No one answers.

Stepping deeper into the lab, I point to the trail of muddy footprints along the otherwise stark white floor. It weaves back and toward the far left corner of the room, then down another corridor in the rear. Only one way to go…

“I thought you said Matthew authorized the land transfer to Wendell a few days ago,” Viv points out as we head toward the back corner. “How’d they get all this built so quick?”

“They’ve been working on the request since last year—my guess is, that was just a formality. In a town like this, I bet they figured no one would mind the sale of a dilapidated mine.”

“You sure? I thought when you spoke to the mayor… I thought you said he was rumbling.”

“Rumbling?”

“Angry,” she clarifies. “Raging.”

“He wasn’t angry—no… he was just mad he wasn’t consulted—but for everyone else, it still brings life back to the town. And even if they don’t know the full extent of it, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing illegal about what Wendell’s done.”

“Maybe,” she says. “Though it depends what they’re building down here…”

As we head further down the hallway, there’s a room off to our right. Inside, a large wipe-off board leans against a four-drawer file cabinet and a Formica credenza. There’s also a brand-new metal desk. There’s something strangely familiar about it.

“What?” Viv asks.

“Ever see one of those desks before?”

She takes a long hard look at it. “I don’t know… they’re kinda standard.”

“Very standard.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“They just redid some of our staff offices. We got the same ones for all our legislative assistants. Those desks… they’re government issue.”

“Harris, those desks are in half the offices in America.”

“I’m telling you, they’re government issue,” I insist. Viv looks back at the desk. I let the silence drive home the point.

“Time-out… time, time, time—so now you think the government built all this?”

“Viv, take a look around. Wendell said they wanted this place for the gold, and there’s no gold. They said they were here to mine, and there’s no mining. They said they’re a small South Dakota company, and they’ve got the entire friggin’ Batcave down here. It’s all right in front of our face—why would you possibly believe that they’re really who they say they are?”

“That doesn’t mean they’re a front for the government.”

“I’m not saying that,” I reply, heading back into the hallway. “But let’s not ignore the fact that all this equipment—the lab tables, the forty-thousand-dollar computer servers, not to mention what it took to build a pristine facility eight thousand feet underground… These boys aren’t kneeling in the dirt, shaking sand through their sifters. Whoever Wendell really is, they’re clearly hunting for something bigger than a few gold nuggets—which in case you missed…”

“… aren’t even here anymore. I know.” Chasing right behind me, Viv follows me up the hallway. “So what do you think they’re after?”

“What makes you think they’re after something? Look around—they’ve got everything they need right here.” I point to the stacks of boxes and canisters that line both sides of the hallway. The canisters look like industrial helium tanks—each one comes up to my chin and has red stenciled letters running lengthwise down the side. The first few dozen are marked Mercury; the next dozen are labeled Tetrachloroethylene.

“You think they’re building something?” Viv asks.

“Either that, or they’re planning on kicking ass at next year’s science fair.”

“Got any ideas?”

I go straight for the boxes that are stacked up to the ceiling throughout the hallway. There’re at least two hundred of them—each one tagged with a small sticker and bar code. I tear one off to get a closer look. Under the bar code, the word Photomultiplier is printed in tiny block letters. But as I open a box to see what a photomultiplier actually is, I’m surprised to find that it’s empty. I kick a nearby box just to be sure. All the same—empty.

“Harris, maybe we should get out of here…”

“Not yet,” I say, plowing forward. Up ahead, the muddy footprints stop, even though the hall keeps going, curving around to the left. I rush through the parted sea of photomultiplier boxes that’re piled up on each side and turn the corner. A hundred feet in front of me, the hallway dead-ends at a single steel door. It’s heavy, like a bank vault, and latched tightly shut. Next to the door is a biometric handprint scanner. From the loose wires that’re everywhere, it’s still not hooked up.

Moving quickly for the door, I give the latch a sharp pull. It opens with a pop. The frame of the door is lined with black rubber to keep it airtight. Inside, running perpendicular to us, the room is long and narrow like a two-lane bowling alley that seems to go on forever. At the center of the room, on a lab table, are three hollowed-out red boxes that’re covered with wires. Whatever they’re building, they’re still not finished, but on our far right, there’s a ten-foot metal sculpture shaped like a giant O. The sign on the top reads, Danger—Do Not Approach When Magnet Is On.

“What do they need a magnet for?” Viv asks behind me.

“What do they need this tunnel for?” I counter, pointing to the metal piping that runs down the length of the room, past the magnet.

Searching for answers, I read the sides of all the boxes that’re stacked around us. Again, they’re all labeled Lab. A huge crate in the corner is labeled Tungsten. None of it’s helpful—that is, until I spot the door directly across the narrow hallway. It’s not just any door, though—this one’s tall and oval, like the kind they have on a submarine. There’s a second biometric scanner that looks even more complex than the one we just passed. Instead of flat glass for a handprint, it’s got a rectangular box that looks as if it’s full of gelatin. I’ve heard of these—put your hand in the gelatin, and they measure the contour of your palm. Security’s getting tighter. But again, wires are everywhere.

As I fly toward the door, Viv’s right behind me—but for the first time since we’ve been together, she grabs my sleeve and tugs me back. Her grip is strong.

“What?” I ask.

“I thought you’re supposed to be the adult. Think first. What if it’s not safe in there?”

“Viv, we’re a mile and a half below the surface—how much more unsafe can it get?”

She studies me like a tenth-grader measuring a substitute teacher. When I came to D.C., I had that look every day. But seeing it on her… I haven’t had it in years. “Look at the door,” she says. “It could be radioactive or something.”

“Without a warning sign out front? I don’t care if they’re still setting up shop—even these guys aren’t that stupid.”

“So what do you think they’re building?”

It’s the second time she’s asked the question. I again ignore her. I’m not sure she wants to know my answer.

“You think it’s bad, don’t you?” Viv says.

Yanking free of her grip, I head for the door.

“It could be anything, right? I mean, it didn’t look like a reactor in there, did it?” Viv asks.

Still marching, I don’t slow down.

“You think they’re building a weapon, don’t you?” Viv calls out.

I stop right there. “Viv, they could be doing anything from nanotech to bringing dinosaurs back to life. But whatever’s in there, Matthew and Pasternak were both killed for it, and it’s now our necks they’re sizing the nooses for. Now you can either wait out here or come inside—I won’t think less of you either way—but unless you plan on living in a car for the rest of your life, we need to get our rear ends inside that room and figure out what the hell is behind curtain number three.”

Spinning back toward the submarine door, I grab the lock and give it a sharp turn. It spins easily, like it’s been newly greased. There’s a loud tunk as the wheel stops. The door unlatches from the inside and pops open slightly.

Over my shoulder, Viv steps in right behind me. As I glance back, she doesn’t make a joke or a cute remark. She just stands there.

I have to push the door with both hands to get it open. Here we go. As the door swings into the wall, we’re once again hit with a new smell—sharp and sour. It cuts right to my sinuses.

“Oh, man,” Viv says. “What is that? Smells like a…”

“… dry cleaner’s,” I say as she nods. “Is that what was in those canisters out there? Dry-cleaning fluid?”

Stepping up and over the oval threshold, we scan around for the answer. The room is even more spotless than the one we came from. I can’t find a speck of dirt. But it’s not the cleanliness that catches our eyes. Straight in front of us, an enormous fifty-yard-wide crater is dug into the floor. Inside the crater is a huge, round metal bowl that’s the size of a hot-air balloon cut in half. It’s like a giant empty swimming pool—but instead of being filled with liquid, the walls of the sphere are lined with at least five thousand camera lenses, one right next to the other, each lens peering inward toward the center of the sphere. The ultimate effect is that the five thousand perfectly aligned telescopes form their own glass layer within the sphere. Hanging from the ceiling by a dozen steel wires is the other half of the sphere. Like the lower half, it’s filled with thousands of lenses. When the two halves are put together, it’ll be a perfect spherical chamber, but for now, the top is still suspended in the air, waiting to be loaded into place.

“What in the hell?” Viv asks.

“No idea, but I’m guessing those things are the photomultiplier—”

“What do you think you’re doing?” someone yells from the left side of the room. The voice is grainy, like it’s being broadcast through an intercom.

I turn to follow the sound, but I almost fall over when I see what’s coming.

“Oh, Lord…” Viv whispers.

Rushing straight at us is a man in a bright orange hazardous-materials suit, complete with its own Plexiglas face plate and built-in gas mask. If he’s wearing that…

“We’re in trouble…” Viv mutters.

50

YOU HAVE ANY IDEA what you’ve done?” the man yells, racing toward us in the orange containment suit.

I want to run, but my legs won’t move. I can’t believe I led us into this—even the smallest amount of radiation could…

The man reaches toward the back of his neck, then yanks the radiation hood off his head, tossing it to the ground. “These are supposed to be clean-room conditions—you know how much time and money you just cost us?!” he shouts, raging forward. If I had to guess his accent, I’d go with eastern European, but something’s off. He’s got sunken dark eyes, a black mustache, and silver wire-rimmed glasses. He’s also much thinner than he looked when the hood was on.

“There’s no radiation?” Viv asks.

“How’d you get down here?!” the man shoots back. Ignoring our orange vests, he takes one look at our clothes. Slacks and button-downs. “You’re not even mining people, are you?” Along the wall is an intercom with a telephone receiver. Right next to that is a red button. The man goes right for it. I know an alarm when I see one.

“Harris…”

I’m already on it. The man with the mustache dives for the alarm. I grab him by the wrist and shove him back. He’s stronger than I expected. Using my own weight against me, he whips me around, slamming me into the white concrete wall. My head jerks backward, and my helmet hits the wall so hard, I actually see stars. He adds a rabbit punch to my gut, hoping it’ll take the fight out of me. He doesn’t know me at all.

His head’s exposed; I’m wearing an unbreakable mine light. Grabbing him by the shoulders, I ram my head forward, put all my weight behind it, and head-butt him with my helmet. The brim slices him across the bridge of his nose. As he staggers backward, I look over at Viv.

She stares at me blankly, unclear what to do.

“Get out of here!” I tell her.

“They’ll kill you for this!” the man with the mustache yells.

Holding him tight, I grip his shoulder with one hand and wind up to hit him again. Thrashing wildly, he digs his fingers into my wrist. As I let go, he tries to make a run for it. He’s heading straight toward Viv—but before he gets there, I grab him by the back of his containment suit and yank him as hard as I can. He may not have been the one to kill Matthew and Pasternak, but right now he’s the only punching bag I’ve got. As he stumbles off balance, I give him one last shove—straight for the edge of the crater.

“No…!” he screams. “It’ll all—!”

There’s a loud, shattering crash as he clears the ledge and lands on half a dozen of the photomultiplier tubes. Sliding headfirst down the inside of the sphere, he smashes through every tube he hits like a human sled, clearing a path all the way to the bottom. The tubes crack easily, barely slowing him down… that is, until he smacks into the thick metal pylon at the base of the sphere. He looks up just in time to hit it face first. He tries to turn, but the pylon collides with his collarbone. There’s a sharp, muted crunch. Bone against metal. As his shoulder hits, his body spins awkwardly around the pylon—but the man doesn’t move. Facedown and unconscious, he’s sprawled across the base of the sphere.

“Time to go!” Viv says, tugging me back toward the entrance.

I look around the rest of the room. Across the sphere, there’re two more submarine doors. They’re both shut.

“Harris, c’mon!” Viv begs, pointing down at the scientist. “The moment he gets up, he’s gonna howl at the moon! We gotta get out of here now!”

Knowing she’s right, I turn around and leap out through the submarine door. Jackrabbiting out of there, we run back through the lab, retracing our steps past the mercury, past the tetrachloroethylene, and past the lab tables and computer servers. Just behind the servers, I notice a small bookshelf filled with black three-ring binders and empty clipboards. From the angle we originally came in, it was easy to miss.

“Harris…”

“Just a sec…”

I shove the server out of the way and scan the binders as fast as I can. Like the clipboards, they’re all empty. All but one. On the top shelf is a black binder with a printed label that reads: The Midas Project. Pulling it off the shelf, I flip to the first page. It’s filled with numbers and dates. All meaningless. But in the top right-hand corner of the page are the words Arrivals/Neutrino. As I continue to flip, it’s the same on every page. Neutrino. Neutrino. Neutrino. I have no idea what a neutrino is, but I don’t need a Ph.D. to see the trend.

“Harris, we gotta get out of here…!”

I slap the book shut, tuck it under my arm, and follow Viv through the room.

As we reach the first door of the air-lock, I toss the notebook to Viv and grab a fire extinguisher that’s leaning against the wall. If anyone’s waiting for us in the tunnel, we should at least have a weapon.

Viv punches the black button that’s just beside the door, and we wait for the hydraulic hiss. As the doors swing open, we step into the air-lock, facing the next set of doors. Viv again pounds the black button.

“Put your mine light on,” I tell her.

She flips a switch, and the light blinks on. Behind us, the doors to the lab slam shut—but unlike before, the door in front of us doesn’t open. We’re trapped. We give it another second.

“Why aren’t they—?”

There’s another screaming hiss. The doors in front of us slowly wheeze open.

“You think anyone’s out there?” she asks.

I pull the safety pin on the fire extinguisher. “We’ll know in a second.”

But as the doors finally open, there’s nothing there but the long darkness of the black tunnel. It’s not gonna last long. The moment someone finds the guy with the mustache, alarms’ll start ringing. The best thing we can do now is get moving.

“Let’s go…” I call out, darting into the tunnel.

“You know where you’re going?”

“To find the cage. Once we get to the top, we’re as good as gone.”

51

STANDING IN FRONT of the empty elevator shaft, Janos narrowed his eyes at the steel cable, waiting for it to start churning. “Did you try to reach your guy down there?” he said into his cell phone.

“I’ve been trying since early this morning—no answer,” Sauls replied.

“Well, then don’t blame me when you don’t get what you want,” Janos said. “You should’ve called in security the moment I said they were headed this way.”

“I told you sixteen times: Those locals down there… they may be thrilled to be working again, but they don’t know the extent of all this—we start calling in armed guards, and we might as well shove the microscope straight up our own ass. Believe me, the longer they think it’s a research lab, the better off we’ll all be.”

“I hate to break it to you, but it is a research lab.”

“You know what I mean,” Sauls shot back.

“That still doesn’t mean you should just risk it all for—”

“Listen, don’t tell me how to run my own operation. I hired you because—”

“You hired me because two years ago, a scaly little Taiwanese silk dealer with an Andy Warhol dye job had a surprisingly finer eye for art than you anticipated. Remarkably, just as he rang the inspector to call you out on that poorly forged Pissarro—which you must admit had none of the lushness of the original—that tiny bug of a man suddenly disappeared. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?” Janos asked.

“Truly,” Sauls replied, surprisingly calm. “And to be clear, the Pissarro was the original—it’s the museum that has the fake—not that you or Mr. Lin were ever sharp enough to consider that, am I right?”

Janos didn’t answer.

“Do your job,” Sauls demanded. “Understand? We clear on the mine now? Once the system’s in place and we can clean out all the local trash, this place’ll be locked down tighter than a flea’s dickhole. But in terms of calling in security, y’know what? I already did—and you’re it. Now fix the problem and stop with the damn lecturing. You found their car; you found their tags—it’s just a matter of waiting at the mine.”

Hearing the click in his ear, Janos turned back to the elevator shaft. He was tempted to call the cage and go down into the tunnels himself, but he also knew that if he did, and Harris and Viv got off on a different level, he’d just as easily miss them. For now, Sauls had it right. What goes down must come up. All he had to do was wait.

52

THE RUSTED STEEL SAFETY gate lets out a high-pitched howl as I tug it from the ceiling of the cage and send it pounding to the floor. The metal rollers spin as it crashes into place. We’re on the 4,850 level of the mine, finally settling into the cage that’ll take us the rest of the way to the top. Like before, I ignore the leaky water that drips from above and go straight for the intercom.

“Stop cage,” I announce as I press the goo-covered button. “We’re all clear—going to one-three.”

“One-three,” the operator repeats. The same level we started at.

“Hoist cage,” I say.

“Hoist cage,” she repeats.

There’s a sharp tug from above. The steel cable goes taut, the cage rockets upward, and as we fly toward the surface, my testicles sink down to my ankles.

Across from me, Viv’s eyes and jaw are clamped shut. Not in fear—in pure obstinacy. She lost it once; she’s not letting it happen again. The cage is banging back and forth against the wood shaft, raining even more water against the top of our helmets. Fighting to keep her balance, she leans back against the greasy walls, but the ride feels like we’re surfing the top of a moving elevator. Aside from a quick glance at the oxygen detector—“20.4,” she says—she stays completely silent.

I’m still breathing heavy, but some things can’t wait. Wasting no time, I open the Midas Project notebook.

“Wanna shine that candle over here?” I ask, hoping to take her mind off the ride.

Between the two of us, she’s still got the only light—but right now, it’s staying aimed down at the metal floor. For Viv, until we’re actually out of here, this box isn’t just a moving leaky coffin. It’s a mountain. A mountain to be conquered.

The only good news is, as we rocket up toward the surface, we don’t have far to go. The oxygen numbers continue to rise: 20.5… 20.7… Fresh air and freedom are only a minute away.

53

THE INSTANT THE STEEL cable started moving, Janos pounced for the nearby phone on the wall.

“Hoist…” the female operator answered.

“This cage that’s coming up right now—can you make sure its next stop is at the Ramp?” Janos asked, reading the location from the sign.

“Sure, but why do you—?”

“Listen, we got an emergency up here—just bring the cage as fast as you can.”

“Everyone alright?”

“Did you hear what I—?”

“I got it… the Ramp.”

Buttoning his jacket, Janos watched as the water rained down and a cold wind blew from the mouth of the open hole. Shoving his hands in the side pocket of his jean jacket, he felt for the black box and flicked the switch. Thanks to the rumble of the approaching cage, he couldn’t even hear the electrical hum.

Over his shoulder, the wood benches started to rattle. Further up the tunnel, the fluorescent lights began to flicker. The bullet train was on its way, and from the deafening roar, it wouldn’t be long.

With a final wheeze, the metal vault popped up from the abyss.

Janos dove at the latch on the corroded yellow door. Don’t give them a chance to catch their breath. Grab them and keep them boxed in.

Yanking on the lock, he whipped the door open. A slap of shaft water flicked him in the face. As the door crashed into the wall, Janos’s jaw shifted to the right. He clenched his teeth even tighter.

“Sons of bitches…”

Inside the cage, drips of water rained down from the ceiling and slithered down the greasy metal walls. Other than that, the cage was empty.

54

HURRY… RUN…!” I yell at Viv as I shove open the door to the cage and sprint through the wide room that stretches out in front of us. According to the sign on the wall, we’re at level 1-3—the same level we came in on. The only difference is, we used a different shaft to get out. Wasn’t hard to find—all we had to do was follow the spray-painted Lift signs. Eight thousand feet later, we’re back on top.

“I still don’t see why we had to take the other shaft,” Viv says, trailing behind me as I dart forward.

“You’ve met Janos once—you really want to go on a second date?”

“But to say he’s waiting for us…”

“Look at your watch, Viv. It’s almost noon—that’s plenty of time to catch up to us. And if he’s already within spitting distance, the last thing we need to do is make it easy.”

Like the tunnels down below, the room up here has metal rail tracks running all along the floor. There are at least half a dozen empty man-cars, two mud-soaked Bobcat diggers, a small swarm of three-wheel ATVs, and even a few red toilet wagons. The whole place stinks of gasoline. This is clearly the vehicle entrance, but right now, all I care about is the exit.

Sidestepping between two man-cars, I continue running toward the enormous sliding garage door on the far wall—but as I get there, I spot the chain and the padlock that’s holding it shut. “Locked!” I call back to Viv.

Searching around, I still don’t see a way out. Not even a window.

“There!” Viv yells, pointing to her right, just past all the red wagons.

As I follow behind her, she runs toward a narrow wooden door that looks like a closet. “You sure that’s it?” I call out.

She doesn’t bother to answer.

Moving in closer, I finally see what’s got her so excited—not just the small door, but the sliver of bright light that’s peeking through underneath. After all that time underground, I know daylight when I see it.

I’m two steps behind Viv as she throws the door open. It’s like coming out of a dark movie theater and stepping straight into the sun. The blast of sunlight burns my eyes in the best way possible. The whole world lights up with fall colors—orange and red leaves… the baby blue sky—that seem neon when compared with the mud below. Even the air—forget that recycled stuff downstairs; as I head up the dirt road in front of us, the sweet smell of plum bushes fills my nose.

“And on the tenth day, God created candy,” Viv sings, sniffing the air for herself. She stares around to take it all in, but I grab her by the wrist.

“Don’t stop now,” I say, tugging her up the dirt road. “Not until we’re out of here.”

Two hundred yards to our left, above the trees, the triangular outline of the main Homestead building slices toward the sky. It takes me a second to get my bearings, but from what I can tell, we’re on the opposite side of the parking lot from where we first started.

A loud siren bursts through the air. I follow it to a bullhorn up on the metal teepee building. There goes the alarm.

“Don’t run,” Viv says, slowing us down even more. She’s right about that. On the steps of one of the construction trailers, a stocky man with overalls and a buzz cut glances our way. I slow to a casual walk and nod my mining helmet at him. He nods right back. We may not have the overalls, but with the helmets and orange vests, we’ve at least got part of the costume.

A half-dozen men run toward the main mining entrance. Following the road past the trailers, we head in the opposite direction, letting it lead us back to the parking lot. A quick scan around tells me everything’s just as we left it. Tons of cruddy old pickup trucks, two classic Harleys, and—Wait… something’s new…

One shiny Ford Explorer.

“Hold on a sec,” I say to Viv, who’s already climbing into our Suburban.

“What’re you doing?”

Without answering, I peek through the side window. There’s a map with a Hertz logo on the passenger seat.

“Harris, let’s go! The alarm…!”

“In a minute,” I call back. “I just want to check one thing…”

55

HOIST…” THE FEMALE operator answered.

“You were supposed to bring the cage straight here!” Janos shouted into the receiver.

“I-I did.”

“You sure about that? It didn’t make any other stops?”

“No… not one,” she replied. “There was no one in it—why would I make it stop anywhere?”

“If there was no one in it, why was it even moving?!” Janos roared, looking around at the empty room of the basement.

“Th-That’s what he asked me to do. He said it was important.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“He said I should bring both cages to the top…”

Janos clamped his eyes shut as the woman said the words. How could he possibly miss it? “There’re two cages?” he asked.

“Sure, one for each shaft. You have to have two—for safety. He said he had stuff to move from one to the other…”

Janos gripped the receiver even tighter. “Who’s he?”

“Mike… he said his name was Mike,” the woman explained. “From Wendell.”

Locking his jaw, Janos turned slightly, peering over his shoulder at the tunnel that led outside. His cagey eyes barely blinked.

“Sorry,” the operator pleaded. “I figured if he was from Wendell, I should—”

With a loud slam, Janos rammed the receiver back in its cradle and took off for the basement stairs. A shrill alarm screamed through the room, echoing up and down the open shaft. In a flash, Janos was gone.

Rushing up the stairs two at a time, Janos burst outside the red brick building and tore back toward the gravel parking lot. On the concrete path in front of him, the man in the Spring Break T-shirt was the only thing blocking his way. With the alarm wailing from above, the man took a long look at Janos.

“Can I help you with something?” the man asked, motioning with his clipboard.

Janos ignored him.

The man stepped closer, trying to cut him off. “Sir, I asked you a question. Did you hear what I—?”

Janos whipped the clipboard from the man’s hands and jammed it as hard as he could against his windpipe. As Spring Break doubled over, clutching his throat, Janos stayed focused on the parking lot, where the black Suburban was just pulling out of its spot.

“Shelley…!” a fellow miner shouted, rushing to Spring Break’s aid.

Locked on the gleaming black truck, Janos raced for the lot—but just as he got there, the Suburban peeled out, kicking a spray of gravel through the air. Undeterred, Janos went straight to his own Explorer. Harris and Viv barely had a ten-second head start. On a two-lane road. It’d be over in no time. But as he reached the Explorer, he almost bumped his head getting inside. Something was wrong. Stepping back, he took another look at the side of the truck. Then the tires. They were all flat.

“Damn!” Janos screamed, punching the side mirror and shattering it with his fist.

Behind him, there was a loud crunch in the gravel. “That’s him,” someone said.

Spinning around, Janos turned just in time to see four pissed-off miners who now had him cornered between the two cars. Behind them, the man with the Spring Break ’94 T-shirt was just catching his breath.

Moving in toward Janos, the miners grinned darkly.

Janos grinned right back.

56

WITH MY EYES ON THE rearview mirror, I veer to the right, pull off the highway, and follow the signs for the Rapid City airport. There’s a maroon Toyota in front of us that’s moving unusually slow, but I’m still watching our rear. It’s barely been two hours since we blew out of the mine parking lot, but until we’re on that plane and the wheels are off the ground, Janos still has a shot—a shot he’s aiming straight at our heads. Slamming my fist against the steering wheel, I honk at the maroon car. “C’mon, drive!” I shout.

When it doesn’t budge, I weave onto the shoulder of the road, punch the gas, and leave the Toyota behind us. Next to me, Viv doesn’t even look up. Since the moment we left, she’s been reading every single word in the Midas Project notebook.

“And…?”

“Nothing,” she says, flipping the notebook shut and checking her side mirror for herself. “Two hundred pages of nothing but dates and ten-digit numbers. Every once in a while, they threw in someone’s initials—JM… VS… there’s a few SCs—but otherwise, I’m guessing it’s just a delivery schedule.”

Viv holds the book up to show me; I look away from the road to check the schedule for myself.

“What’s the earliest date in there?” I ask.

Resting it back on her lap, Viv flips to the first page. “Almost six months ago. April fourth, 7:36 A.M.—item number 1015321410,” she reads from the schedule. “You’re right about one thing—they’ve definitely been working on this for a bit. I guess they figured getting the authorization in the bill was just a formality.”

“Yeah, well… thanks to me and Matthew, it almost was.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“But it almost was.”

“Harris…”

I’m in no mood for a debate. Pointing back to the notebook, I add, “So there’s no master list to help decipher the codes?”

“That’s why they call ’em codes. 1015321410… 1116225727… 1525161210…”

“Those are the photomultiplier tubes,” I interrupt. She looks up from the book. “Wha?”

“The bar codes. In the lab. That last one was the bar code on all the photomultiplier boxes.”

“And you remember that?”

From my pocket, I pull out the sticker I ripped off earlier and slap it against the center of the dashboard. It sticks in place. “Am I right?” I ask as Viv rechecks the numbers.

She nods, then looks down, falling silent. Her hand snakes into her slacks, where I spot the rectangular outline of her Senate ID badge. She pulls it out for a split second and steals a glance at her mom. I look away, pretending not to see.

Avoiding the main entrance for the airport, I head for the private air terminal and turn into the parking lot outside an enormous blue hangar. We’re the only car there. I take it as a good sign.

“So what do you think the tubes and the mercury and the dry-cleaning smell is for?” Viv asks as we get out of the car.

I stay silent as we head under a bright red canopy and follow the sign marked Lobby. Inside, there’s an executive lounge with oak furniture, a big flat-screen TV, and a Native American rug. Just like the one Matthew used to have in his office.

“Senator Stevens’s party?” a short-haired blond asks from behind the reception desk.

“That’s us,” I reply. Pointing over my shoulder, I add, “I didn’t know where to return the car…”

“There is fine. We’ll have it picked up for you, sir.” It’s one less thing to worry about, but it doesn’t even come close to lightening my load. “So the plane is all set to go?”

“I’ll let the pilot know you’re here,” she says, picking up the phone. “Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

I look over at Viv, then down at the notebook in her hands. We need to figure out what’s going on—and the way I left things in D.C., there’s still one place I need to follow up on. “Do you have a phone I can use?” I ask the woman at the reception desk. “Preferably somewhere private?”

“Of course, sir—upstairs and to the right is our conference room. Please help yourself.”

I give Viv a look.

“Right behind you,” Viv says as we head up the stairs.

The conference room has an octagonal table and a matching credenza that holds a saltwater aquarium. Viv goes for the aquarium; I go for the window, which overlooks the front of the hangar. All’s clear. For now.

“So you never answered the question,” Viv says. “Whattya think that sphere in the lab is for?”

“No idea. But it’s clearly got something to do with neutrinos.”

She nods, remembering the words from the corner of each page. “And a neutrino…”

“I think it’s some type of subatomic particle.”

“Like a proton or electron?”

“I guess,” I say, staring back out the window. “Beyond that, you’re already out of my league.”

“So that’s it? That’s all we’ve got?”

“We can do more research when we get back.”

“But for all we know it could be good, though, right? It might be good.”

I finally look away from the window. “I don’t think it’s gonna be good.”

She doesn’t like that answer. “How can you be so sure?”

“You really think it’s something good?”

“I don’t know… maybe it’s just research—like a government lab or something. Or maybe they’re just trying to turn stuff into gold. That can’t hurt anyone, can it?”

“Turn stuff into gold?”

“The project is called Midas.”

“You really think it’s possible to turn things to gold?”

“You’re asking me? How should I know? Anything’s possible, right?”

I don’t respond. In the past two days, she’s relearned the answer to that one. But the way she bounces on her heels, she still hasn’t completely given up on it. “Maybe it’s something else with the Midas story,” she adds. “I mean, he turned his daughter into a statue, right? He do anything else beside giving her the ultimate set of gold teeth?”

“Forget mythology—we should talk to someone who knows their science,” I point out. “Or who can at least tell us why people would bury a neutrino lab in a giant hole below the earth.”

“There we go—now we’re moving…”

“We can call the National Science Foundation. They helped us with some of the high-tech issues when we did hearings on the cloning bill last year.”

“Yeah—good. Perfect. Call ’em now.”

“I will,” I say as I pick up the phone on the octagonal table. “But not until I make one other call first.”

As the phone rings in my ear, I look back out the window for Janos’s car. We’re still alone.

“Legislative Resource Center,” a woman answers.

“Hi, I’m looking for Gary.”

“Which one? We’ve got two Garys.”

Only in Congress.

“I’m not sure.” I try to remember his last name, but even I’m not that good. “The one who keeps track of all the lobbying disclosure forms.”

Viv nods. She’s been waiting for this. If we plan on figuring out what’s going on with Wendell, we should at least find out who was lobbying for them. When I spoke to Gary last week, he said to check back in a few days. I’m not sure if we even have a few hours.

“Gary Naftalis,” a man’s voice answers.

“Hey, Gary, this is Harris from Senator Stevens’s office. You said to give you a call about the lobbying forms for—”

“Wendell Mining,” he interrupts. “I remember. You were the one in the big rush. Let me take a look.”

He puts me on hold, and my eyes float over to the saltwater aquarium. There are a few tiny black fish and one big purple and orange one.

“I’ll give you one guess which ones we are,” Viv says.

Before I can reply, the door to the conference room flies open. Viv and I spin toward the sound. I almost swallow my tongue.

“Sorry… didn’t mean to scare you,” a man wearing a white shirt and a pilot’s hat says. “Just wanted to let you know we’re ready whenever you are.”

I once again start to breathe. Just our pilot.

“We’ll only be a sec,” Viv says.

“Take your time,” the pilot replies.

It’s a nice gesture, but time’s the one thing we’re running out of. I again glance out the window. We’ve already been here too long. But just as I’m about to hang up, I hear a familiar monotone voice. “Today’s your birthday,” Gary says through the receiver.

“You found it?”

Viv stops and turns my way.

“Right here,” Gary says. “Must’ve just got scanned in.”

“What’s it say?”

“Wendell Mining Corporation…”

“What’s the name of the lobbyist?” I interrupt.

“I’m checking,” he offers. “Okay… according to the records we have here, starting in February of this past year, Wendell Mining has been working with a firm called Pasternak and Associates.”

“Excuse me?”

“And based on what it says here, the lobbyist on record—man, his name’s everywhere these days…” My stomach burns as the words burn through the telephone. “Ever hear of a guy named Barry Holcomb?”

57

EVERYBODY SMILE,” Congressman Cordell said as he stretched his own practiced grin into place and put his arms around the eighth-graders who flanked him on both sides of his desk. It took Cordell the first six months of his career to get the perfect smile down, and anyone who said it wasn’t an art form clearly knew nothing about making an impression when cameras were clicking. Smile too wide and you’re a goon; too thin and you’re cocky. Sure, going no-teeth was perfect for policy discussions and sophisticated amusement, but if that’s all you had, you’d never win the carpool moms. For that, you needed to show enamel. In the end, it was always a range: more enthusiastic than a smirk, but if you flashed all the Chiclets, you went too far. As his first chief of staff once told him, no President was ever a toothy grinner.

“On three, say, ‘President Cordell’…” the Congressman joked.

“President Cordell…” all thirty-five eighth-graders laughed. As the flashbulb popped, every student in the room raised his chest just a tiny bit. But no one raised his higher than Cordell himself. Another perfect grin.

“Thank you so much for doing this—it means more than you know,” Ms. Spicer said, shaking the Congressman’s hand with both of her own. Like any other eighth-grade social studies teacher in America, she knew this was the highlight of her entire school year—a private meeting with a Congressman. What better way to make the government come alive?

“They got a place we can get T-shirts?” one of the students called out as they made their way to the door.

“You’re leaving so soon?” Cordell asked. “You should stay longer…”

“We don’t want to be a bother,” Ms. Spicer said.

“A bother? Who do you think I’m working for?” Cordell teased. Turning to Dinah, who was just making her way into the office, he asked, “Can we push our meeting back?”

Dinah shook her head, knowing full well that Cordell didn’t mean it. Or at least, she didn’t think he meant it. “Sorry, Congressman…” she began. “We have to—”

“You’ve already been incredible,” Ms. Spicer interrupted. “Thank you again. For everything. The kids… It’s just been amazing,” she added, locked on Cordell.

“If you need tickets to the House Gallery, ask my assistant out front. She’ll get you right in,” Cordell added, doing the math in his head. According to a study he read about the pass-along rate of information and gossip, if you impress one person, you impress forty-five people—which meant he had just impressed 1,620 people. With a single three-minute photo op.

Giving the top-teeth-but-no-gum-line grin, Cordell waved as the group filed out of his office. Even when the door slammed shut, the smile lingered. At this point, it was pure instinct.

“So how do we look?” Cordell asked Dinah as he collapsed in his seat.

“Actually, not too bad,” Dinah replied, standing in front of his desk and noticing his use of the word we. He trotted that out whenever the issue at hand was potentially ugly. If it were pretty—like a school photo op—it was always I.

“Just tell me what they’re gonna bust our nuts on,” he added.

“I’m telling you, not much,” Dinah began, handing him the final memo for the Conference on the Interior Appropriations bill. Now that pre-Conference and the hagglings with Trish were over, the Final Four—a Senator and a House Member from each party—would spend the next two days hammering out the last loose ends so the bill could go to the Floor, thereby funding all the earmarks and pork projects tucked within.

“We’ve got about a dozen Member issues, but everything else played out pretty much as usual,” Dinah explained.

“So all our stuff’s in there?” Cordell asked.

Dinah nodded, knowing that he always covered his projects first. Typical Cardinal.

“And we got the things for Watkins and Lorenson?”

Again, Dinah nodded. As Members of Congress, Watkins and Lorenson weren’t just the recipients of brand-new visitor centers for their districts, they were also the Cardinals of, respectively, the Transportation and the Energy and Water subcommittees. By funding their requests in the Interior bill, Cordell was guaranteed to get eight million dollars in highway funds for a Hoover Dam bypass, and a two-million-dollar earmark for ethanol research at Arizona State University, which just happened to be in his district.

“The only speed bump will be the White House structural improvements,” Dinah explained. “Apelbaum zeroed them out, which truthfully doesn’t matter—but if the White House gets pissed…”

“… they’ll shine the spotlight on all our projects as well. I’ll take care of it.” Looking down at the memo, Cordell asked, “How much did you offer him?”

“Three and a half million. Apelbaum’s staff says he’ll take it—he just wants a big enough fuss to get his name in USA Today.”

“Any others?”

“Nothing big. You should probably give in on O’Donnell’s Oklahoma stuff—we gutted most of his other requests, so it’ll make him feel like he got something. By the way, we also got that South Dakota land transfer—the old gold mine—I think it was the last thing Matthew grabbed from the goody bag.”

Cordell gave a silent nod, telling Dinah he had no idea what she was talking about. But by bringing the gold mine up here—and pairing it with Matthew’s name—she knew that Cordell would never give it away during Conference.

“Meanwhile,” Cordell began, “about Matthew…”

“Yes?”

“His parents asked me to speak at his funeral.”

Dinah paused, but that was all her boss would say. As usual, though, she knew what he meant. Staff always did.

“I’ll write up a eulogy, sir.”

“Great. That’d be great. As office mates, I thought you’d want to take the first draft.” Turning back to the memo, he added, “Now, about this thing Kutz wants for the Iditarod Trail…”

“I marked it up how you like it,” Dinah said as she readjusted her fanny pack and headed for the door. “If it’s got a K next to it, it means keep it; if it’s got a G, it means we can give it away. Truthfully, though, it’s been a pretty easy year.”

“So we got what we wanted?”

Just as she was about to leave the office, Dinah turned around and smiled. All teeth. “We got everything and more, sir.”

Cutting back through the welcome area of her boss’s personal office, Dinah said a quick hello to the young receptionist in the denim shirt and bolo tie, then grabbed the last cherry Starburst from the candy bowl on his desk.

“Bastard eighth-graders cleaned me out,” the receptionist explained.

“You should see what happens when the AARP people come visit…” Never slowing down, she zigzagged through reception, bounding out through the front door and into the hallway. But as she glanced right and left up the white marble hall, she didn’t see the person she was looking for—not until he stepped out from behind the tall Arizona state flag that stood outside Cordell’s office.

“Dinah?” Barry called out, putting his hand on her shoulder.

“Whah—” she said, spinning around. “Don’t scare me like that!”

“Sorry,” he offered as he held her elbow and followed her up the hallway. “So we done?”

“All done.”

“Really done?”

“Trust me—we just solved the puzzle without even buying a vowel.”

Neither of them said another word until they turned the corner and stepped into an empty elevator.

“Thanks again for helping me out with this,” Barry began.

“If it’s important to you…”

“It was actually important to Matthew. That’s the only reason I’m involved.”

“Either way—if it’s important to you, it’s important to me,” Dinah insisted as the elevator doors slid shut.

With a single sweep of his cane, Barry looked around, listening. “We’re alone, aren’t we?”

“That we are,” she said, stepping closer.

Barry once again reached out for her shoulder, this time lightly brushing his fingers against the edge of her bra strap. “Then let me say a proper thank-you,” he added as the elevator bucked slightly, descending toward the basement. Sliding his hand up the back of her neck and through her short blond hair, he leaned forward and gave her a long, deep kiss.

58

FINAL BOARDING CALL for Northwest Airlines flight 1168 to Minneapolis–St. Paul,” a female voice announced through the Rapid City airport terminal. “All ticketed passengers should now be on board.”

Shutting the switch for the PA system, the gate attendant turned to Janos, checking his boarding pass and driver’s license. Robert Franklin. “You have a good day now, Mr. Franklin.”

Janos looked up, but only because his cell phone started vibrating in his jacket pocket. As he pulled the phone out, the gate attendant smiled and said, “Hope it’s a quick call—we’re about to push back…”

Shooting the attendant a dark glare, he headed up the jetway. As he turned his attention to the phone, he didn’t need to check caller ID to know who it was.

“Do you have any conception how much money your sloppiness just cost me?” Sauls asked through the phone. His voice was as calm as Janos had ever heard it, which meant it was even worse than Janos thought.

“Not now,” Janos warned.

“He threw our technician into the sphere. Sixty-four photomultiplier tubes completely shattered. You know how much each of those costs? The components alone came from England, France, and Japan—then had to be assembled, tested, shipped, and reassembled under clean-room conditions. Now we have to redo it sixty-four damn times.”

“You done yet?”

“I don’t think you heard me. You blew it, Janos.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Sauls went silent. “That’s the third time you’ve said that,” he finally growled. “But let me promise you right now, Janos—if you don’t take care of it soon, we’ll be hiring someone to take care of you.”

With a soft click, the phone went dead.

“Nice to see you tonight,” a flight attendant said as Janos boarded the plane.

Ignoring the attendant, he went straight for his seat in first class and stared out the oval window at the concrete runway. Sauls was still right about one thing: He had been getting sloppy lately. From getting stranded on the first flight, to the second elevator—he should’ve seen those coming. It was the most basic rule of tracking: cover every exit. Sure, he’d underestimated Harris—even with Viv slowing him down, and despite the panic that had to be swirling through his brain, he still somehow managed to plot a few moves ahead. No doubt, all those years in the Senate served him well. But as Janos knew, this was far more serious than politics. Leaning back against the headrest and losing himself in the roar of the jet engines, Janos closed his eyes and took another mental look at the pieces on the board. Time to get back to basics. No question, Harris was playing great chess—but even the best grandmasters know there’s no such thing as a perfect game.

59

DADDY’S GOING TO work now,” Lowell Nash called out to his four-year-old daughter early the following morning.

Staring at the TV, she didn’t respond.

As Deputy Attorney General, Lowell wasn’t used to being ignored, but when it came to family… family was a whole different story. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“Say good-bye to Daddy,” Lowell’s wife added from the living room of their Bethesda, Maryland, home.

Never taking her eyes off the videotaped glow of Sesame Street, Cassie Nash sucked the tip of one of her braided pigtails and waved her hand through the air at her dad. “Bye, Elmo…”

Lowell smiled and waved good-bye to his wife. At formal events, his colleagues at the Justice Department called him Deputy General Nash—he worked twenty-five years to earn that title—but ever since his daughter learned that the voice of Elmo was done by a tall black man who resembled her dad (Elmo’s best friend, according to Cassie), Lowell’s name was changed. Elmo beat Deputy General any day.

Leaving his house at a few minutes past seven A.M., Lowell locked the door behind himself, then twisted the doorknob and checked it three times. Directly above, the sky was gray, the sun tucked behind the clouds. No question, rain would be here soon. By the time he reached the driveway on the side of the old stucco colonial, his smile was gone—but the ritual was still the same. As he’d done every day for the past week, he checked every bush, tree, and shrub in sight. He checked the cars that were parked on the street. And most important, as he pushed a button and unlocked the doors on his silver Audi, he checked his own front seat as well. The lightning-shaped fracture was still fresh in the side window, but Janos was gone. For now.

Starting the car and pulling out onto Underwood Street, Lowell scanned the rest of the block, including the rooftop of every nearby house. Since the day he graduated from Columbia Law School, he had always been careful with his professional life. He paid his cleaning woman over the table, told his accountant not to be greedy on his taxes, and in a town of freebies, reported every gift he ever got from a lobbyist. No drugs… no outrageous drinking… nothing stupid at any of the social events he’d attended over the years. Too bad the same couldn’t be said of his wife. It was just one dumb night—even for the college kid she was back then. A few too many drinks… a cab would take too long… If she got behind the wheel, she’d be home in minutes instead of an hour.

By the time she was done, a boy was paralyzed. The car hit him so hard, it shattered his pelvis. Through some quick thinking and expensive legal maneuvers, the lawyers expunged her record. But somehow, Janos found it. THE NEXT COLIN POWELL? the Legal Times headline read. Not if this gets out, Janos warned the first night he showed up.

Lowell didn’t care. And he wasn’t afraid to tell Janos. He didn’t get to be number two at Justice by running and hiding at every political threat. Sooner or later, the news about his wife would come out—so if it was sooner, well… there’s no way he’d hurt Harris for that.

That’s when Janos started showing up at Lowell’s daughter’s preschool. And at the playground where they took her on weekends. Lowell saw him immediately. Not doing anything illegal, just standing there. With those dark, haunting eyes. For Lowell, that was it. He knew it all too well—family was a different story.

Janos didn’t ask for much: Keep him informed when Harris called—and stay the hell out of it.

Lowell had thought it’d be easy. It was harder than he ever imagined. Every night, the tossing and turning increased. Last night he was up so late, he heard the paper hit his doorstep at five A.M. Turning onto Connecticut Avenue and heading downtown, he could barely keep the car straight on the road. A droplet of water splattered against his windshield. Then another. It was starting to pour. Lowell didn’t even notice.

No doubt, Lowell had been careful. Careful with his money… with his career… and with his future. But right now, as the shrapnel of rain sprayed across his windshield, he slowly realized there was a fine line between careful and cowardly. On his left, a navy Acura blew past him. Lowell turned his head slightly to follow it, but the only thing he saw was the crack in his side window. He looked back at the road, but it wouldn’t go away.

Elmo beat Deputy General, he reminded himself—but the more he thought about it, that was precisely why he couldn’t just sit there any longer. Picking up his cell phone, he dialed the number for his office.

“Deputy Attorney General’s office. This is William Joseph Williams,” a male voice answered. During his interview for the job, William said his mother picked his name because it sounded like a President. Right now, he was still Lowell’s assistant.

“William, it’s me. I need a favor.”

“Sure thing. Name it.”

“In my top left-hand drawer, there’s a set of fingerprints I got off my car door last week.”

“The kids that cracked your window, right? I thought you already ran those.”

“I decided not to,” Lowell said.

“And now?”

“I changed my mind. Put ’em in the system; do a full scan—every database we’ve got, including foreign,” Lowell said as he flicked on his windshield wipers. “And tell Pilchick I’m gonna need some detail to watch my family.”

“What’s going on, Lowell?”

“Don’t know,” he said, staring dead ahead at the slick road in front of him. “Depends what we find.”

60

HARRIS, SLOW DOWN,” Viv begs, chasing behind me as I cross First Street and wipe the rain from my face.

“Harris, I’m talking to you…!”

I’m barely listening as I plow through a puddle toward the four-story brick building halfway up the block.

“What was it you said when we landed last night? Be calm, right? Wasn’t that the plan?” Viv calls out.

“This is calm.”

“It’s not calm!” she calls out, hoping to keep me from doing something stupid. Even if I’m not listening, I’m glad she’s using her brain.

I whip open the glass doors and charge into the building. It’s just a hair past seven. Morning security shift hasn’t started yet. Barb’s not in.

“Can I help you?” a guard with some acne scars asks.

“I work here,” I insist just forcefully enough that he doesn’t ask twice.

He looks to Viv.

“Nice to see you again,” she adds, not slowing down. She’s never seen him before in her life. He waves back. I’m impressed. She’s getting better every day.

By the time we reach the elevator, Viv’s ready to tear my head off. The good news is, she’s smart enough to wait at least until the doors close.

“We shouldn’t even be here,” she says as they finally slam shut and the elevator lurches upward.

“Viv, I don’t want to hear it.” Early this morning, I picked up a new suit from the locker at my gym. Last night, after throwing our shirts in the plane’s washer-dryer and clocking a half hour each in the onboard shower, we spent the entire flight back using the plane’s satellite phones to track people down at the National Science Foundation. Because of the time zones, we couldn’t get any of their scientists directly, but thanks to a jittery assistant and the promise that we’d be bringing the Congressman himself, we were able to wrangle a meeting.

“First thing this morning,” she reminds me for the fifth time.

The NSF can wait. Right now, this is more important.

As the doors open on the third floor, I rush past the modern paintings in the hallway and head for the frosted-glass door with the numeric keypad. As quickly as I can, I punch in the four-digit code, shove open the door, and weave my way through the inner hallway’s maze of cubicles and offices.

It’s still too early for support staff to be in, so the whole place is silent. A phone rings in the distance. One or two offices have people sipping coffee. Other than that, the only sounds we hear are our own feet thumping against the carpet. The drumbeat quickens the faster we run.

“You sure you even know where you’re—?”

Two steps past the black-and-white photo of the White House, I make a sharp right into an open office. On the black lacquered desk, there’s a keyboard with a braille display, and no mouse. You don’t need one if you’re blind. There’s also a high-definition scanner, which converts his mail to text, then gets read aloud by his computer. If there were any doubt, the Duke diploma on the wall tells me I’ve got it right: Barrett W. Holcomb. Where the hell are you, Barry?

He wasn’t home when we went by last night—during the day, he’s trolling the Capitol. We spent the last few hours hiding in a motel a few blocks away, but I figured if we came here early enough…

“Why don’t you just beep him and ask him to meet you?” Viv asks.

“And let him know where I am?”

“But by coming here… Harris, this is just dumb! If he’s working with Janos, they can—”

“Janos isn’t here.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“For the exact reason you said: It is dumb for us to be here.”

From her look, she’s confused. “What’re you talking about?”

There’s a tapping sound behind us. I turn just as he steps through the door.

“Harris?” Barry asks. “Is that you?”

61

YOU SCHEMING PIECE of shit…!” I yell, lunging forward.

Barry hears me coming and instinctively tries to sidestep. He’s too late. I’m already on him, shoving him in the shoulder and forcing him backward.

“A-Are you nuts?” Barry asks.

“They were our friends! You’ve known Matthew since college!” I shout. “And Pasternak… he took you in when no one else would hire you!”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Was that why it happened? Some business deal that went wrong with Pasternak? Or did he just pass you up for partner, and this was your easy shot at revenge?!” I shove him again, and he stumbles off balance. He’s struggling to get to his desk. His shin smashes into the wastebasket, sending it wobbling to the floor.

“Harris!” Viv shouts.

She’s worried because he’s blind. I don’t care.

“How much did they pay you?!” I yell, staying right behind him.

“Harris, please…” he begs, still searching for balance.

“Was it worth it? Did you get everything you wanted?!”

“Harris, I’d never do anything to hurt them.”

“Then why was your name in there?” I ask.

“What?”

“Your name, Barry! Why was it in there?!”

“In where?”

“In the damn lobbying disclosure form for Wendell Mining!” I explode with one final shove.

Staggering sideways, Barry slams into the wall. His diploma crashes to the floor as the glass shatters.

Locking onto the wall, he presses his back against it, then palms the surface, searching for stability. Slowly, he picks his chin up to face me.

“You think that was me?” he asks.

“Your name’s on it, Barry!”

“My name’s on all of them—every single client in the entire office. It’s part of being the last guppy in the food chain.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Those forms—filling them out—it’s grunt work, Harris. All the forms are done by support staff. But ever since we got fined ten grand because a partner didn’t fill his out a few years back, they decided to put someone in charge. Some people are on the recruitment committee… others do associate benefits and staff policy. I collect all the disclosure forms and put an authorizing signature at the bottom. Lucky me.”

I stop right there, searching his eyes. One of them’s made of glass; the other’s all cloudy, but locked right on me. “So you’re telling me Wendell Mining isn’t your client?”

“Not a chance.”

“But all those times I called—you were always there with Dinah…”

“Why shouldn’t I be? She’s my girlfriend.”

“Your what?”

“Girlfriend. You still remember what a girlfriend is, don’t you?” He turns to Viv. “Who else is here with you?”

“A friend… just a friend,” I say. “You’re dating Dinah?”

“Just starting—it’s been less than two weeks. But you can’t say anything—”

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You kidding? A lobbyist dating the head clerk in Appropriations? She’s supposed to judge every project on its merits… If this got out, Harris, they’d string us up just for the fun of it. Her reputation… It’d be over.”

“How could you not tell me? Or Matthew?”

“I didn’t want to say anything—especially to Matthew. You know how much crap he’d give me… Dinah busts—Dinah busted his balls every day.”

“I-I can’t believe you’re dating her.”

“What? Now I can’t be happy?”

Even now, that’s all he sees. Perceived slights. “So the help you’ve been giving to Wendell…”

“Dinah said it was one of the last things Matthew was pushing for—I just… I just thought it’d be nice if he got his last wish.”

I stare at Barry. His cloudy eye hasn’t moved, but I see it all in the pained crease between his eyebrows. The sadness is all over his face.

“I swear to you, Harris—they’re not my client.”

“Then whose are they?” Viv asks.

“Why’re you so crazed for—?”

“Just answer the question,” I demand.

“Wendell Mining?” Barry asks. “They’ve only been with us a year, but as far as I know, they only worked with one person: Pasternak.”

62

… WENDELL MINING was working with Pasternak?” I ask.

The words hit like a cannonball in my gut. If Pasternak was in on it from the start… “He knew all along,” I whisper.

“Knew what?” Barry asks.

“Hold on,” Viv says. “You think he set you up?”

“M-Maybe… I don’t know…”

“What’re you talking about?” Barry insists.

I turn toward Viv. Barry can’t see us. I shake my head at her. Don’t say a word.

“Harris, what’s going on?” Barry asks. “Set you up for what?”

Still reeling, I look out through Barry’s door, into the rest of the office. It’s still empty—but it won’t be for long. Viv shoots me another look. She’s ready to get out of here. I can’t say I disagree. Still, I’ve been on the Hill long enough to know that you don’t start flinging accusations unless you can prove they’re true.

“We should leave,” Viv says. “Now.”

I shake my head. Not until we get some proof.

“Barry, where does the firm keep its billing records?” I ask.

Viv’s about to say something. She cuts herself off. She sees what I’m getting at.

“Our what?” Barry asks.

“Billing records… time sheets… anything that shows Pasternak was working with Wendell.”

“Why would you—?”

“Barry, listen to me—I don’t think Matthew was hit by that car accidentally. Now please… we’re running out of time… where are the billing records?”

Barry’s frozen. He turns his head slightly, listening to the fear in my voice. “Th-They’re on-line,” he mumbles.

“Can you get them for us?”

“Harris, we should call the—”

“Just get them, Barry. Please.”

He pats the air, feeling for his desk chair. As he slides into place, his hands leap for his keyboard, which looks like a regular keyboard except for the thin two-inch plastic strip that’s just below the space bar and runs along the bottom. Thanks to the hundred or so pin-sized dots that pop up from the strip, Barry can run his fingers across it and read what’s on-screen. Of course, he can also use the screen reader.

“JAWS for Windows is ready,” a computerized female voice says through Barry’s computer speakers. I remember the screen-reading software from college. The computer reads whatever comes on screen. The best part is, you can choose the voice. Paul is the male; Shelley’s the female. When Barry first got it, we used to play with the pitch and speed to make her sound more slutty. We all grew up. Now the voice is no different from a robotic female secretary.

“Log-in user name? Edit,” the computer asks.

Barry types in his password and hits Enter.

“Desktop,” the computer announces. If Barry’s monitor were on, we’d see his computer’s desktop. The monitor’s off. He doesn’t need it.

A few quick keystrokes activate prewritten computer scripts that take him directly where he’s going. “File menu bar. Menu active.” Finally, he hits the letter B.

“Billing Records,” the computer says. “Use F4 to maximize all windows.”

I stand behind Barry, watching over his shoulder. Viv’s by the door, staring up the hallway.

“Leaving menu bar. Search by—” Barry hits the Tab key. “Company name? Edit,” the computer asks.

He types the words Wendell Mining. When he hits the space bar, the computer announces whatever word he types, but his fingers are moving so fast, it comes out Wen—Mining.

The computer beeps, like something’s wrong. “Client not found,” the computer says. “New search? Edit.”

“What’s going on?” Viv asks.

“Try just Wendell,” I add.

“Wendell,” the computer repeats as Barry types the word and hits Enter. There’s another beep. “Client not found. New search? Edit.”

“This doesn’t make sense,” Barry says. His hands are a blur of movement.

The female voice can’t keep up. “Ne—Sys—Wen—Min—Searching database…”

He’s widening the search. I stare intensely at the computer screen even though it’s all black. It’s better than watching Viv panic by the door.

“Harris, you still there?” Barry asks.

“Right here,” I reply as the computer whirs.

“Client not found in system,” the mechanized voice replies.

Barry respells it.

“Client not found in system.”

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“Hold on a second.”

Barry hits the W, then the downward arrow key. “Waryn Enterprises,” the computer says. “Washington Mutual… Washington Post … Weiner & Robinson…” It’s searching alphabetically. “Wong Pharmaceuticals… Wilmington Trust… Xerox… Zuckerman International… End of record,” the computer finally says.

“You kidding me?” Barry says, still searching. “Where are they?” I ask.

“End of record,” the computer repeats.

Barry hits the keyboard once more.

“End of record.”

“I don’t understand,” Barry says. His hands move faster than ever. “Full—Sys—Searching…”

“Barry, what the hell is going on?”

“Search error,” the female mechanized voice interrupts. “Client name not in system.”

I stare at the blank screen; Barry stares down at his keyboard.

“They’re gone,” Barry says. “Wendell Mining’s gone.”

“What’re you talking about? How can it be gone?”

“It’s not there.”

“Maybe someone forgot to enter it.”

“It already was entered. I checked it myself when I did the lobbying forms.”

“But if it’s not there now…”

“Someone took it out… or deleted the file,” Barry says. “I checked every spelling of Wendell… I went through the entire database. It’s like they were never clients.”

“Morning…” a short man in an expensive pinstriped suit says to Viv as he walks past the door to Barry’s office.

She turns my way. People are starting to arrive. “Harris, the longer we’re here…”

“I got it,” I say to Viv. My eyes stay on Barry. “What about hard copies? Is there anything else that might show that Pasternak worked with Wendell?”

Barry’s been blind for as long as I’ve known him. He knows panic when he hears it. “I-I guess there’s Pasternak’s client files…”

A loud chirp screeches through the air. All three of us wince at the sharpness of the sound.

“What in the hell—?”

“Fire alarm!” Viv calls out.

We give it a few seconds to shut itself off. No such luck.

Viv and I once again exchange glances. The alarm continues to scream. If Janos is here, it’s a perfect way to empty the building.

“Harris, please…” she begs.

I shake my head. Not yet.

“Does Pasternak still keep his files in his office?” I shout to Barry over the noise.

“Yeah… why?”

That’s all I need. “Let’s go,” I call to Viv, motioning her out into the hallway.

“Wait…!” Barry says, shooting out of his seat and following right behind us.

“Keep going,” I say to Viv, who’s a few steps in front of me. If Barry’s not involved, the last thing I want to do is suck him in.

As Barry steps into the hallway, I look back to make sure he’s okay. The short man in the pinstriped suit comes by to help him make his way outside. Barry brushes him off, rushing after us. “Harris, wait!”

He’s faster than I thought.

“Oh, crap,” Viv calls out as we turn the corner. Forcing our way out to the bank of elevators, we see this isn’t just a drill.

All three elevator doors are closed, but now there’s a chorus of three elevator alarms competing with the main fire alarm. A middle-aged man shoves open the metal emergency door to the stairs, and a wisp of dark gray smoke swims into the hall. The smell tells us the rest. Something’s definitely burning.

Viv looks at me over her shoulder. “You don’t think Janos—”

“C’mon,” I insist, rushing past her.

I dart for the open door of the stairs—but instead of heading down, I go straight up, toward the source of the smoke.

“What’re you doing?” Viv calls out.

She knows the answer. I’m not leaving without Pasternak’s records.

“Harris, I’m not doing this anymore…”

An older woman with jet black dyed hair and reading glasses around her neck comes down the stairs from the fourth floor. She’s not running. Whatever’s burning up there is more smoke than threat.

I feel a sharp tug on the back of my shirt.

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Viv asks.

Again I stay silent, pulling away from Viv and continuing up the stairs. The thought of Pasternak working against us… Is that why they killed him? He was already involved? Whatever the answer, I need to know.

Leaping up the stairs two at a time, I quickly reach the top, where I squeeze between two more lobbyists just as they enter the stairwell.

“Hey there, Harris,” one calls out with a friendly laugh. “Wanna grab some breakfast?”

Unreal. Even in a fire, lobbyists can’t help but politic.

Twisting and turning through the hallway, I head toward Pasternak’s office and follow the smoke, which is now a thick dark cloud that fills the narrow hallway. I’m blinking as fast as I can, but it’s burning my eyes. Still, I’ve been coming this way for years. I could make it here in pitch dark.

As I make a sharp right around the last corner, there’s a crackle in the air. A wave of heat punches me hard in the face—but not nearly as hard as the hand that reaches out and clutches my arm. I can barely see him through the smoke.

“Wrong way,” a deep voice insists.

I jerk my arm to the side, quickly freeing myself. My fist is clenched, ready to take the first swing.

“Sir, this area’s closed. I need you to make your way to the stairs,” he says over the screaming alarm. On his chest is a gold-and-blue Security badge. He’s just a guard.

“Sir, did you hear what I said?”

I nod, barely paying attention. I’m too busy staring over his shoulder at the source of the fire. Up the hallway… through the thick oak door… I knew it… I knew it the moment the alarm went off. A tiny burst of flame belches through the air, licking the ceiling tiles in Pasternak’s office. His desk… the leather chair… the presidential photos on the wall—they’re all on fire. I don’t stop. If the file cabinet’s fireproof, I can still…

“Sir, I need you to exit the building,” the guard insists. “I need to get in there!” I call out, trying to rush past him. “Sir!” the man shouts. He extends his arm, blocking my way and ramming me in the chest. He’s got four inches and over a hundred pounds on me. I don’t let up. And neither does he. As I shove him aside, he pinches the skin on the side of my neck and gives it a ruthless twist. The pain’s so intense, I almost fall to my knees.

“Sir, are you listening to me?!”

“Th-The files…”

“You can’t go in there, sir. Can’t you see what’s happening?”

There’s a loud crash. Up the hallway, the oak door to Pasternak’s office collapses off its hinges, revealing the file cabinets that run along the wall just behind it. There are three tall cabinets side by side. From the looks of it, all of them are fireproof. The problem is, all of them have their drawers pulled wide open.

The papers inside crackle and burn, charred beyond recognition. Every few seconds, a sharp pop kicks a few singed black scraps somersaulting through the air. I can barely breathe through all the smoke. The world blurs through the flames. All that’s left are the ashes.

“They’re gone, sir,” the guard says. “Now, please… head down the stairs.”

I still don’t move. In the distance, I can hear the orchestra of approaching sirens. Ambulances and fire engines are on their way. Police won’t be far behind.

The guard reaches out to turn me around. That’s when I feel the soft hand on the small of my back.

“Ma’am…” the guard starts.

Behind me, Viv studies the burning file cabinets in Pasternak’s office. The sirens slowly grow louder.

“C’mon,” she tells me. My body’s still in shock, and as I turn to face her, she reads it in an instant. Pasternak was my mentor; I’ve known him since my first days on the Hill.

“Maybe it’s not what you think,” she says, tugging me back up the hallway and toward the stairs.

The tears run down my face, and I tell myself it’s from the smoke. Sirens continue to howl in the distance. From the sound of it, they’re right outside the building. With a sharp tug, Viv drags me into the dark gray fog. I try to run, but it’s already too hard. I can’t see. My legs feel like they’re filled with Jell-O. I can’t do it anymore. My run slows to a lumbering walk.

“What’re you doing?” Viv asks.

I can barely look her in the eye. “I’m sorry, Viv…”

“What? Now you’re just giving up?”

“I said, I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough! You think that takes the guilt off your plate? You got me into this, Harris—you and your dumb frat-boy, I-own-the-world-so-let’s-play-with-it egoism! You’re the reason I’m running for my life, and wearing the same underwear for three days, and crying myself to sleep every night wondering if this psychopath is gonna be standing over me when I open my eyes in the morning! I’m sorry your mentor tricked you, and that your Capitol Hill existence is all you have, but I’ve got an entire life in front of me, and I want it back! Now! So get your rear end moving, and let’s get out of here. We need to figure out what the hell we saw in that underground lab, and right now we’ve got an appointment with a scientist that you’re making me late for!”

Stunned by the outburst, I can barely move.

“You’ve really been crying yourself to sleep?” I finally ask.

Viv pummels me with a dark stare that gives me the answer. Her brown eyes glow through the smoke. “No.”

“Viv, you know I’d never—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“But I—”

“You did it, Harris. You did it, and it’s done. Now, you gonna make it right or not?”

Outside the building, someone barks safety instructions through a bullhorn. The police are here. If I want to give up, this is the place to do it.

Viv heads up the hallway. I stay put.

“Good-bye, Harris,” she calls out. The words sting as she says them. When I first asked her for help, I promised her she wouldn’t get hurt. Just like I promised Matthew that the game was harmless fun. And promised Pasternak, when I first met him, that I’d be the most honest person he’d ever hire. All those words… when I originally said them… I meant every syllable—but no question, those words were always for me. Myself. I, I, I. It’s the easiest place to get lost on Capitol Hill—right inside your own self-worth. But as I watch Viv disappear in the smoke, it’s time to look away from the mirror and finally refocus.

“Hold on,” I call out, chasing after her and diving into the smoke. “That’s not the best way.”

Stopping midstep, she doesn’t smile or make it easy. And she shouldn’t.

It takes a seventeen-year-old girl to treat me like an adult.

63

HOW’S IT LOOK?” Lowell asked as his assistant stepped into his fourth-floor office in the main Justice building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

“Let me put it like this,” William began, brushing his messy brown hair from his chubby, boyish face. “There’s no Santa Claus, no Easter bunny, no cheerleader who liked you in high school, your 401K is toilet paper, you didn’t marry the prom queen, your daughter just got knocked up by a real scumbag, and y’know that beautiful view you’ve got of the Washington Monument?” William asked, pointing over Lowell’s shoulder at the nearby window. “We’re gonna paint it black and replace it with some modern art.”

“Did you say modern art?”

“No joke,” William said. “And that’s the good news.”

“It’s really that bad?” Lowell asked, motioning to the red file folder in his assistant’s hands. Outside Lowell’s office and across the adjacent conference room, two receptionists answered the phones and put together his schedule. William, on the other hand, sat right outside Lowell’s door. By title, he was Lowell’s “confidential assistant,” which meant he had security clearance to deal with the most important professional issues—and, after three years with Lowell, the personal ones as well.

“On a scale of one to ten, it’s Watergate,” William said.

Lowell forced a laugh. He was trying to keep it light, but the red folder already told him this was only getting worse. Red meant FBI.

“The fingerprints belong to Robert Franklin of Hoboken, New Jersey,” William began, reading from the folder.

Lowell made a face, wondering if the name Janos was fake. “So he’s got a record?” he asked.

“Nosiree.”

“Then how’d they have his fingerprints?”

“They got ’em internally.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Their staffing unit. Personnel,” William explained. “Apparently, this guy applied for a job a few years back.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nosiree. He applied.”

“At the FBI?”

“At the FBI,” William confirmed.

“So why didn’t they hire him?”

“They’re not saying. That one’s too high up for me. But when I begged for a hint, my buddy over there said they thought the application was sour.”

“They thought he was trying to infiltrate? On his own, or as a hired gun?”

“Does it matter?”

“We should run him outside the system—see if he—”

“Whattya think I’ve been doing for the last hour?”

Lowell forced another grin, gripping the armrests of his leather chair and fighting to keep himself from standing. They’d worked together long enough that William knew what the grip meant. “Just tell me what you found,” Lowell insisted.

“I ran it through a few of our foreign connections… and according to their system, the prints belong to someone named Martin Janos, a.k.a. Janos Szasz, a.k.a….”

“Robert Franklin,” Lowell said.

“And Bingo was his name-o. One and the same.”

“So why’d they have his prints over there?”

“Oh, boss-man, that’s the cherry on top. He used to work at Six.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“Martin Janos—or whatever his real name is—he used to be MI-6. Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service.”

Lowell closed his eyes, trying to remember Janos’s voice. If he was British, the accent was long gone. Or well hidden.

“When he joined, he was barely a kid—just out of college,” William added. “Apparently, he had a sister who was killed in a car bomb. That got him sufficiently riled up. They brought him in as a straight recruit.”

“So no military background?”

“If there is, they’re not saying.”

“He couldn’t have been too high on the totem pole.”

“Just an analyst in the Forward Planning Directorate. Sounds to me like he was staring at a computer, stapling lots of papers together. Whatever it was, he spent two years there, then was fired.”

“Any reason why?”

“Insubordination, surprise surprise. They put him on a job; he refused to do it. When one of his superiors got in his face about it, the argument got a little heated, at which point young Janos picked up a nearby stapler and started beating him with it.”

“Wound a little tight, isn’t he?”

“The smartest ones always are,” William said. “Though it sounds to me like he was a powder keg to begin with. Once he leaves, he goes out on his own, finds some work for the highest bidder…”

“Now he’s back in business,” Lowell agrees. “Certainly a possibility,” William said as his voice trailed off.

“What?” Lowell asked.

“Nothing—it’s just… after Her Majesty’s Service, Janos is gone for almost five years, reappears one day over here, applies to the FBI under a new ID, gets rejected for trying to infiltrate, then steps back into the abyss, never to be heard from again—that is, until a few days ago, when he apparently uses all his hard-trained skills to… uh… to smash the side window on your car.”

Letting the silence take hold, William stared hard at his boss. Lowell stared right back. The phone on his desk started to ring. Lowell didn’t pick it up. And the longer he studied his assistant, the more he realized this wasn’t an argument. It was an offer.

“Sir, if there’s anything you need me to—”

“I appreciate it, William. I truly do. But before I get you knee-deep in this, let’s just see what else we can find.”

“But I can—”

“Believe me, you’re invaluable to the case, William—I won’t forget it. Now let’s just keep hunting.”

“Absolutely, sir,” William said with a grin. “That’s what I’m working on right now.”

“Any leads worth talking about?”

“Just one,” William said, pointing down to the folder, where a fax from the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network poked out from the top. “I ran all of Janos’s identities through the guys at FinCEN. They came up with an offshore account that bounces back through Antigua.”

“I thought we couldn’t get to those…”

“Yeah, well, since 9-11, some countries have been a little more cooperative than others—especially when you say you’re calling from the Attorney General’s office.”

Now Lowell was the one who was grinning. “According to them, the account has four million dollars’ worth of transfers from something called the Wendell Group. So far, all we know is, it’s a shelf company with a fake board of directors.”

“Think you can trace ownership?”

“That’s the goal,” William said. “It’ll take some peeking in the right places, but I’ve seen these guys work before… If I gave them your last name, they’d find the twelve-dollar savings account your mom opened for you when you were six.”

“Then we’re in good hands?”

“Let me put it like this, sir—you can go get coffee and some McDonaldland Cookies. By the time you come back, we’ll have Wendell—or whoever they are—sitting in your lap.”

“I still appreciate what you’re doing,” Lowell said, holding his glance tight on his assistant. “I owe you for this.”

“You don’t owe me a Canadian penny,” William said. “It all goes back to what you taught me on day one: Don’t fuck with the Justice Department.”

64

THIS IS IT?” Viv asks, craning her neck skyward and stepping out of the cab in downtown Arlington, Virginia. “I was expecting a huge science compound.”

Dead ahead, a twelve-story modern office building towers over us as hundreds of commuters pour out of the nearby Ballston Metro Station and scurry past the surrounding coffee shops and trendy eateries that are about as edgy as suburbia gets. The building is no bigger than the others around it, but the three words carved into the salmon-colored stone facade immediately make it stand out from everything else: National Science Foundation.

Approaching the front entrance, I pull open one of the heavy glass doors and check the street one last time. If Janos were here, he wouldn’t let us get inside—but that doesn’t mean he’s not close.

“Morning, dear—how can I help you today?” a woman wearing a lime green sweater set asks from behind a round reception desk. On our right, there’s a squatty black security guard whose eyes linger on us a few seconds too long.

“Yeah… we’re here to see Doctor Minsky,” I say, trying to stay focused on the receptionist. “We have an appointment. Congressman Cordell…” I add, using the name of Matthew’s boss.

“Good,” the woman says as if she’s actually happy for us. “Photo IDs, please?”

Viv shoots me a look. We’ve been trying to avoid using our real names.

“No worries, Teri, they’re with me,” a peppy female voice interrupts.

Back by the elevators, a tall woman in a designer suit waves at us like we’re old friends.

“Marilyn Freitas—from the director’s office,” she announces, pumping my hand and smiling with a game show grin. The ID badge around her neck tells me why: Director of Legislative and Public Affairs. This isn’t a secretary. They’re already pulling out the big guns—and while I’ve never seen this woman in my life, I know this tap dance. The National Science Foundation gets over five billion dollars annually from the Appropriations Committee. If I’m bringing one of their appropriators here, they’re gonna roll out the brightest red carpet they can find. That’s why I used Matthew’s boss’s name instead of my own.

“So is the Congressman here?” she asks, smile still in place.

I look back through the glass door. She thinks I’m searching for my boss. I’m actually checking for Janos. “He should be joining us shortly—though he said we should start without him,” I explain. “Just in case.”

Her smile sinks a bit, but not by much. Even if she’d rather see the Congressman, she’s smart enough to know the importance of staff. “Whenever he gets here is good by us,” she says as she leads us back to the elevators. “Oh, and by the way,” she adds, “welcome to the NSF.”

As the elevator rises to the tenth floor, my mind bounces back to yesterday’s elevator ride: the cage pounding against the walls as the water rained down on our mud-coated helmets. Leaning back against the polished brass railing, I toss a thin smile at Viv. She ignores it, keeping her eyes on the red digital numbers that mark our ascent. She’s done being friends. She wants out.

“So I understand you’re here to talk to Dr. Minsky about neutrinos,” Marilyn says, hoping to keep the conversation going.

I nod. Viv nibbles. “Everyone said he’s the expert,” she says, trying not to make it sound like a question.

“Oh, he is,” Marilyn replies. “That’s where he got his start—subatomic. Even his early work on leptons… sure, it may seem basic now, but back then, it set the standard.”

We both nod as if she’s talking about the TV Guide crossword puzzle.

“So he does his research right here?” Viv adds.

The woman lets out the kind of laugh that usually comes with a pat on the head. “I’m sure Dr. Minsky would love to get back in the lab,” she explains. “But that’s no longer part of the job description. Up here, we’re primarily concerned with the funding side.”

It’s a fair description but a complete understatement. They’re not just concerned with the funding side; they control it. Last year, the National Science Foundation funded over two thousand studies and research facilities across the globe. As a result, they have a hand in just about every major science experiment in the world—from a radio telescope that can see the evolution of the universe, to a climate theory that’ll help us control the weather. If you can dream it up, the NSF will consider giving it financial support.

“And here we are,” Marilyn announces as the elevator doors glide open.

On our left, silver letters emblazoned on the wall read: Directorate for Mathematical and Physical Sciences. The sign’s so big, there’s barely room for the NSF logo, but that’s what happens when you’re the largest of the NSF’s eleven divisions.

Leading us past another reception desk and around the corner to a sitting area that has all the charm of a hospital waiting room, she doesn’t say another word. On our left and right, the walls are covered with science posters: one with a row of satellite dishes lined up under a rainbow, another with a shot of the Pinwheel Galaxy from the Kitt Peak National Observatory. Both are meant to calm anxious visitors. Neither one does much of a job.

Over my shoulder, the elevator doors open in the distance. I spin around to see who’s there. If we can find the premier neutrino expert in the country, so can Janos. Back by the elevators, a man with thick glasses and a rumpled sweater steps into the hall. From the way he’s dressed, it’s clear he’s just a local.

Reading my relief, Viv turns back toward the waiting area, which is surrounded by half a dozen closed doors. All are numbered 1005. The one directly in front of us has the additional label .09. Only the National Science Foundation assigns rooms with a decimal designation.

“Doctor Minsky?” Marilyn calls out, knocking lightly and turning the knob.

As the door slowly opens, a distinguished older man with puffy cheeks is already out of his seat, shaking my hand and looking over my shoulder. He’s searching for Cordell.

“The Congressman should be here shortly,” Marilyn explains.

“He said we should start without him,” I add. “Perfect… perfection,” he replies, finally making eye contact. Studying me with smoky gray eyes, Minsky scratches slightly at the side of his beard, which, like his wispy, thin hair, is more salt than pepper. I try to smile, but his stare continues to bear down on me. That’s why I hate meeting with academics. Social skills are always slightly off.

“I’ve never met you before,” he finally blurts.

“Andy Defresne,” I say, introducing myself. “And this is—”

“Catherine,” Viv says, refusing my aid.

“One of our interns,” I jump in, guaranteeing that he’ll never look twice at her.

“Dr. Arnold Minsky,” he says, shaking Viv’s hand. “My cat’s name was Catherine.”

Viv nods as pleasantly as possible, checking out the rest of his office in an attempt to avoid further conversation.

He’s got an upholstered sofa, a matching set of end chairs, and an outstanding view of downtown Arlington outside the plate-glass windows that line the entire right side of his office. Forever the academic, Minsky goes straight to his desk, which is covered with meticulous size-order stacks of papers, books, and magazine articles. Like his work, every molecule is accounted for. As I take the seat directly across from him, Viv slides into the chair that’s next to the window. It’s got a perfect view of the busy street out front. She’s already searching for Janos.

I check the walls, hunting for anything else that’ll give me a read. To my surprise, unlike the usual D.C. ego shrine, Minsky’s walls aren’t covered with diplomas, famous-person photos, or even a single framed newspaper clipping. That’s not the commodity here. He’s done proving he belongs.

Still, every universe has its own currency. The walls on both sides of Minsky’s desk are covered with built-in bookcases, floor to ceiling, filled with hundreds of books and academic texts. The spines are all worn, which I quickly realize is the point. In Congress, the golden ring is fame and stature. In science, it’s knowledge.

“Who’s that with you in the photo?” Viv asks, pointing to a tasteful silver frame of Minsky standing next to an older man with curly hair and a quizzical expression.

“Murray Gell-Mann,” Minsky says. “The Nobel Prize winner…”

I roll my tongue inside my cheek. Stature plays everywhere.

“So what can I help you with today?” Minsky asks.

“Actually,” I say, “we were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about neutrinos…”

65

YOU SAW THEM?” Janos asked, holding his cell phone in one hand and gripping the steering wheel of the black sedan with the other. The morning traffic wasn’t bad, even for Washington, but at this point, even a moment’s delay was enough to get him raging. “How’d they look?” he demanded.

“They’re lost,” his associate said. “Harris could barely get a sentence out, and the girl…”

“Viv.”

“Angry little thing. You could see it in the air. She was ready to take his head off.”

“Did Harris say anything?”

“Nothing you don’t know.”

“But they were there?” Janos asked.

“Absolutely. Even went up to the boss’s office—not that it did them any good,” the man said.

“So you took care of everything?”

“Everything you asked.”

“And they believed it?”

“Even the Dinah stuff. Unlike Pasternak, I see things through to the end.”

“You’re a real hero,” Janos said wryly.

“Yeah, well… don’t forget to tell your boss that. Between the loans, the surgeries, and all my other debts…”

“I’m well aware of your financial situation. That’s why—”

“Don’t say it’s the money—screw money; it’s more than that. They asked for this. They did. The snubs… the shrug-offs… People think it goes unnoticed.”

“As I was saying, I completely sympathize. That’s why I approached you in the first place.”

“Good, because I didn’t want you to think every lobbyist is in it for the cash. That’s a hurtful stereotype.”

Janos was silent. In many ways, his colleague was no different from the shiny sedan he was driving—over-hyped and barely adequate. But as he reasoned when he first picked out the car, some things are necessary to blend in in Washington. “Did they say where they were going next?” Janos asked.

“No, but I have an idea…”

“So do I,” Janos said, making a sharp right and pulling into the underground parking garage. “Nice to see you,” he called out as he waved to the security guard outside the employee lot. The guard threw a warm smile back.

“Are you where I said?” his colleague asked through the phone.

“Don’t worry where I am,” Janos shot back. “Just focus on Harris. If he calls back, we need you to keep your eyes and ears wide open.”

“Ears I can help you with,” Barry said, his scratchy voice raking through the phone. “It’s the eyes that’ve always been a bit of a problem.”

66

NOW WHAT’S THIS for again?” Dr. Minsky asks, unbending a paperclip and tapping it lightly on the edge of his desk.

“Just background,” I say, hoping to keep the discussion moving. “We’ve got this project we’re looking at—”

“A new neutrino experiment?” Minsky interrupts, clearly excited. It’s still his pet issue, so if there’s some new data out there, he wants to play with the toys first.

“We really shouldn’t say,” I reply. “They’re still in the early stages.”

“But if they’re—”

“It’s actually someone who’s a friend of the Congressman,” I interrupt. “It’s not for public consumption.”

The man has two Ph.D.s. He gets the hint. Congressmen do favors for friends every day. That’s why the real news on Capitol Hill is never in the newspapers. If Minsky wants any more favors from us, he knows he has to help us with this.

“So neutrinos, eh?” he finally asks.

I smile. So does Viv—but as she turns her head slightly, glancing out the window, I can tell she’s still searching for Janos. We’re not gonna outrun him without a head start.

“Let me do it like this,” Minsky says, quickly shifting into professor mode. He holds the unbent paperclip up like a tiny pointer, then motions downward, from the ceiling to the floor. “As we sit here right now, fifty billion—not million—fifty billion neutrinos are flying from the sun, through your skull, down your body, out the balls of your feet, and down through the nine floors below us. They won’t stop there, though—they’ll keep going past the concrete foundation of the building, straight through the earth’s core, through China, and back out to the Milky Way. You think you’re just sitting here with me, but you’re being bombarded right now. Fifty billion neutrinos. Every single second. We live in a sea of them.”

“But are they like protons? Electrons? What are they?”

He looks down, trying not to make a face. To the educated man, there’s nothing worse than a layperson. “In the subatomic world, there are three kinds of particles that have mass. The first and heaviest are quarks, which make up protons and neutrons. Then, there’re electrons and their relatives, which are even lighter. And finally come neutrinos, which are so incredibly lightweight there are still some doubters out there who argue they don’t have mass at all.”

I nod, but he knows I’m still lost.

“Here’s the significance,” he adds. “You can calculate the mass of everything you see in a telescope, but when you add all that mass up, it’s still only ten percent of what makes up the universe. That leaves ninety percent unaccounted for. So where’s the missing ninety percent? As physicists have asked for decades: Where’s the missing mass of the universe?”

“Neutrinos?” Viv whispers, accustomed to being a student.

“Neutrinos,” Minsky says, pointing the paperclip her way. “Of course, it probably isn’t the full ninety percent, but a portion of it… they’re the leading candidate.”

“So if someone’s studying neutrinos, they’re trying to…”

“… crack open the ultimate treasure chest,” Minsky says. “The neutrinos that we’re swimming in right now were produced at the big bang, at supernovas, and even, during fusion, at the heart of the sun. Any idea what those three things have in common?”

“Big explosions?”

“Creation,” he insists. “That’s why physicists are trying to figure them out, and that’s why they gave the Nobel to Davis and Koshiba a few years back. Unlock neutrinos and you potentially unlock the nature of matter and the evolution of the universe.”

It’s a nice answer, but it doesn’t get me any closer to my real question. Time to be blunt. “Could they be used to build a weapon?”

Viv looks away from the window; Minsky cocks his head slightly, picking me apart with his scientist’s eyes. I may be sitting in front of a genius, but it doesn’t take one to know something’s up.

“Why would someone use it as a weapon?” he asks.

“I’m not saying they are—we just… we want to know if they can.”

Minsky drops the paperclip and puts his palms flat against his desk. “Exactly what type of project is this for again, Mr. Defresne?”

“Maybe I should leave that for the Congressman,” I say, trying to defuse the tension. All it does is shorten the fuse.

“Maybe it’d be best if you showed me the actual proposal for the project,” Minsky says.

“I’d love to—but right now it’s confidential.”

“Confidential?”

“Yes, sir.”

The fuse is on its last hairs. Minsky doesn’t move.

“Listen, can I be honest with you?” I ask.

“What a novel idea.”

He uses the sarcasm as a mental shove. I purposely twist in my chair and pretend he’s got control. Rope-a-dope. He may have twenty years on me, but I’ve played this game with the world’s best manipulators. Minsky’s just someone who got an A in science.

“Okay,” I begin. “Four days ago, our office got a preliminary proposal for a state-of-the-art neutrino research facility. It was hand-delivered to the Congressman at his home address.” Minsky picks up his paperclip, thinking he’s getting the inside poop.

“Who did the proposal? Government or military?” he asks.

“What makes you say that?”

“No one else can afford it. You have any idea how much these things cost? Private companies can’t pull that kind of weight.”

Viv and I exchange a glance, once again rethinking Wendell, or whoever they really are.

“What can you tell me about the project?” Minsky asks.

“According to them, it’s purely for research purposes, but when someone builds a brand-new lab a mile and a half below the earth, it tends to get people’s attention. Because of the parties involved, we want to make sure that ten years from now, this won’t be coming back to haunt us. That’s why we need to know, worst-case scenario, what’s the potential damage they can do?”

“So they’re going with an old mine, huh?” Minsky asks.

He doesn’t sound surprised. “How’d you know?” I reply.

“It’s the only way to get it done. The Kamioka lab in Japan is in an old zinc mine… Sudbury, Ontario, is in a copper mine… Know what it costs to dig a hole that deep? And then testing all the structural support? If you don’t use an old mine, you’re adding two to ten years to the project, plus billions of dollars.”

“But why do you have to be down there in the first place?” Viv asks.

Minsky looks almost annoyed by the question. “It’s the only way to shield the experiments from cosmic rays.”

“Cosmic rays?” I ask skeptically.

“They’re bombarding the earth at all times.”

“Cosmic rays are?”

“I realize it must sound a little sci-fi,” Minsky says, “but think of it like this: When you fly from coast to coast on an airplane, it’s the equivalent of one to two chest X-rays. That’s why the airlines regularly screen flight attendants to see if they’re pregnant. We’re being bathed in all sorts of particles right now. So why put your science underground? No background noise. Up here, the dial in your wristwatch is giving off radium—even with the best lead shielding, there’s interference everywhere. It’s like trying to do open-heart surgery during an earthquake. Down below the earth’s surface, all the radioactive noise is shut out, which is why it’s one of the few places where neutrinos are detectable.”

“So the fact that the lab’s underground…”

“… is pretty much a necessity,” Minsky says. “It’s the only place to pull it off. Without the mine, there’s no project.”

“Location, location, location,” Viv mutters, glancing my way. For the first time in three days, things are finally starting to make sense. All this time, we thought they wanted the mine to hide the project, but in reality, they need the mine to get the project going. That’s why they needed Matthew to slip the mine in the bill. Without the mine, they have nothing.

“Of course, what really matters is what they’re doing down there,” Minsky points out. “Do you have a schematic?”

“I do… it’s just… it’s with the Congressman,” I say, smelling the opening. “But I remember most of it—there was this huge metal sphere filled with these things called photomultiplier tubes—”

“A neutrino detector,” Minsky says. “You fill the tank with heavy water so you can stop—and therefore detect—the neutrinos. The problem is, as neutrinos fly and interact with other particles, they actually change from one identity to another, making different neutrino ‘flavors.’ It’s like a Jekyll-Hyde type of affair. That’s what makes them so hard to detect.”

“So the tubes are just for observation purposes?”

“Think of it as a big enclosed microscope. It’s an expensive endeavor. Only a few exist in the world.”

“What about the magnet?”

“What magnet?”

“There was this narrow hallway with a huge magnet and these long metal pipes that ran the entire length of the room.”

“They had an accelerator down there?” Minsky asks, confused.

“No idea—the only other thing was this big crate labeled Tungsten.”

“A tungsten block. That definitely sounds like an accelerator, but—” He cuts himself off, falling unusually silent.

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing—it’s just, if you have a detector, you don’t usually have an accelerator. The noise from one… it’d interfere with the other.”

“Are you sure?”

“When it comes to neutrinos… it’s such a developing field… no one’s sure of anything. But up until now, you either study the existence of neutrinos or you study their movement.”

“So what happens if you put a detector and an accelerator together?”

“I don’t know,” Minsky says. “I’ve never heard of anyone doing it.”

“But if they did… what’s the potential application?”

“Intellectually, or—”

“Why would the government or military want it?” Viv asks, getting to the point. Sometimes, it takes a kid to cut through the nonsense. Minsky’s not the least bit thrown. He knows what happens when the government digs its nails into science.

“There are certainly some potential defense applications,” he begins. “This doesn’t require an accelerator, but if you want to know if a particular country has nuclear weapons, you can fly a drone over the country, get an air sample, and then use the ‘quiet’ of the mine to measure the radioactivity in the air sample.”

It’s a fine theory, but if it were that simple, Wendell—or whoever they are—would’ve just requested the mine from the Defense subcommittee. By trying to sneak it through Matthew and the Interior subcommittee, they’re playing dirty—which means they’ve got their hands on something they don’t want public.

“What about weaponry… or making money?” I ask.

Lost in thought, Minsky twirls the tip of his paperclip through the edge of his beard. “Weaponry’s certainly possible… but what you said about making money… you mean literally or figuratively?”

“Say again?”

“It goes back to the nature of neutrinos. You can’t just see a neutrino like you see an electron. It doesn’t show up under the microscope—it’s like a ghost. The only way to see them is to watch their interactions with other atomic particles. For example, when a neutrino hits the nucleus of an atom, it generates a certain type of radiation like an optical sonic boom. All we can see is the boom, which tells us that the neutrino was just there.”

“So you measure the reaction when the two things collide,” Viv says.

“Exactly—the difficulty is, when a neutrino hits you, it also changes you. Some say it’s because the neutrino is constantly shifting identities. Others hypothesize that it’s the atom that gets changed when there’s a collision. No one knows the answer—at least, not yet.”

“What does this have to do with making money?” I ask.

To our surprise, Minsky grins. His salty beard shifts with the movement. “Ever hear of transmutation?”

Viv and I barely move.

“Like King Midas?” I ask.

“Midas… Everyone always says Midas,” Minsky laughs. “Don’t you love when fiction is science’s first step?”

“So you can use neutrinos to do alchemy?” I ask.

“Alchemy?” Minsky replies. “Alchemy is a medieval philosophy. Transmutation is a science—transforming one element into another through a subatomic reaction.”

“I don’t understand. How do neutrinos…?”

“Think back. Jekyll and Hyde. Neutrinos start as one flavor, then become another. That’s why they tell us about the nature of matter. Here…” he adds, opening the top left-hand drawer in his desk. He rummages for a moment, then slams it shut and opens the drawer below it. “Okay, here…”

Pulling out a laminated sheet of paper, he slaps it against his desk, revealing a grid of familiar square boxes. The periodic table. “I assume you’ve seen this before,” he says, pointing to the numbered elements. “One—hydrogen; two—helium; three—lithium…”

“The periodic table. I know how it works,” I insist.

“Oh, you do?” He looks down again, hiding his smile. “Find chlorine,” he finally adds.

Viv and I lean forward in our seats, searching the chart. Viv’s closer to tenth-grade science. She jabs her finger at the letters Cl. Chlorine.

“Atomic number seventeen,” Minsky says. “Atomic weight 35.453(2)… nonmetallic classification… yellowish-green color… halogen group. You’ve heard of it, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, years back, in one of the original neutrino detectors, they filled a hundred-thousand-gallon tank with it. The smell was horrific.”

“Like a dry cleaner’s,” Viv says.

“Exactly,” Minsky says, pleasantly surprised. “Now remember, you only see neutrinos when they collide with other atoms—that’s the magic moment. So when the neutrinos plowed into a chlorine atom just right, the physicists suddenly started finding…” Minsky points down to the periodic table, pressing his paperclip against the box next to chlorine. Atomic number eighteen.

“Argon,” Viv says.

“Argon,” he repeats. “Atomic symbol Ar. Seventeen to eighteen. One additional proton. One box to the right on the periodic table.”

“Wait, so you’re saying when the neutrino collided with the chlorine atoms, they all changed to argon?” I ask.

“All? We should be so lucky… No, no, no—this was one little argon atom. One. Every four days. It’s an amazing moment—and completely random, God bless chaos. The neutrino hits, and right there, seventeen becomes eighteen… Jekyll becomes Hyde.”

“And this is happening right now in the air around us?” Viv asks. “I mean, didn’t you say neutrinos are everywhere?”

“You couldn’t possibly see the reactions with all the current interference. But when it’s isolated in an accelerator… and the accelerator is shielded deep enough below the ground… and you aim a beam of neutrinos just right… well, no one’s come close yet, but think about what would happen if you could control it. You pick the element you want to work with; you bump it one box to the right on the periodic table. If you could do that…”

My stomach twists. “… you could turn lead to gold.”

Minsky shakes his head—and then again starts laughing. “Gold?” he asks. “Why would you ever make gold?”

“I thought Midas…”

“Midas is a children’s story. Think of reality. Gold costs what? Three hundred… four hundred dollars an ounce? Go buy a necklace and a charm bracelet, I’m sure it’ll be very nice—nice and shortsighted.”

“I’m not sure I—”

“Forget the mythology. If you truly had the power to transmute, you’d be a fool to make gold. In today’s world, there are far more valuable elements out there. For instance…” Minsky again stabs the periodic table with his paperclip. Atomic symbol Np.

“That’s not nitrogen, is it?” I ask.

“Neptunium.”

“Neptunium?”

“Named after the planet Neptune,” Minsky explains, forever the teacher.

“What is it?” I ask, cutting him off.

“Ah, but you’re missing the point,” Minsky says. “The concern isn’t what is it? The concern is what it could be…” With one final jab, Minsky moves his paperclip to the nearest element on the right.

“Pu?”

“Plutonium,” Minsky says, his laugh long gone. “In today’s world, it’s arguably the most valuable element on the chart.” He looks up at us to make sure we get it. “Say hello to the new Midas touch.”

67

SCRUBBING HIS HANDS in the fourth-floor men’s room, Lowell stared diagonally down at the front page of the Washington Post Style section that lay flat across the tile floor and peeked out from the side of the closest stall. It was nothing new—every morning, a still-unidentified coworker started the day with the Style section, then left it behind for everyone else to share.

For Lowell, who usually never read anything but the newspaper clips his staff prepared, it was a ritual that stumbled headfirst across the fine line that separated convenience from bad hygiene. That’s why, even though the paper was right there, he never reached down to pick it up. Not once. He knew what others were doing when they read it. And where their hands had been. Disgusting, he’d long ago decided.

Of course, some things took precedence. Like checking the Post’s infamous gossip column, The Reliable Source, to make sure his name wasn’t in it. He’d meant to look this morning, but time got away from him. It had been barely three days since he last saw Harris. He’d counted at least four reporters in the restaurant that night. So far, everything was quiet, but any one of them could’ve tattled about the meeting between him and Harris. For that alone, it was worth taking a peek.

Using the tip of his shoe to pin down the top corner of the paper, Lowell slid the section out from under the stall. The back page was wet, making it stick slightly as he tried to pull it toward him. Lowell tried not to think about it, focusing instead on using the side of his foot to wedge open the front page. But just as he nudged his foot inside, the door to the bathroom swung open, smashing into the wall. Lowell spun around, pretending to be busy by the hand dryer. Behind him, his assistant darted inside, barely able to catch his breath.

“William, what’s—?”

“You need to read this,” he insisted, shoving the red file folder toward Lowell.

Watching his assistant carefully, Lowell wiped his hands against his slacks, reached for the folder, and flipped it open. It took a moment to scan the official cover sheet. Lowell’s eyes went wide—and within thirty seconds, the gossip column didn’t matter anymore.

68

HOLD ON,” I SAY. “You’re telling me people could smash some neutrinos against some…”

“Neptunium…” Minsky says.

“… neptunium, and suddenly create a batch of plutonium?”

“I’m not saying they’ve done it—at least not yet—but I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was working along those lines… at least on paper.”

He’s speaking with the calmness of someone who thinks it’s still theoretical. Viv and I know better. We saw it with our own eyes. The sphere… the accelerator… even the tetrachloroethylene… That’s what Wendell’s building down there—that’s why they wanted to keep it so quiet. If word got out they were trying to create plutonium… there’s no way it’d make it through the process.

“But no one can do that yet, right?” Viv asks, trying to convince herself. “It’s not possible…”

“Don’t say that in these halls,” Minsky teases. “Theoretically, anything’s possible.”

“Forget whether it’s possible,” I say. “Assuming you could do it, how feasible is it to pull it off? Is neptunium even accessible, or is it just as hard to find?”

“Now that’s the vital question,” Minsky says, knighting me with his paperclip. “For the most part, it’s a rare earth metal, but neptunium-237 is a by-product from nuclear reactors. Here in the U.S., since we don’t reprocess our spent nuclear fuel, it’s hard to get your hands on. But in Europe and Asia, they reprocess massive amounts.”

“And that’s bad?” Viv asks.

“No, what’s bad is that global monitoring of neptunium only began in 1999. That leaves decades of neptunium unaccounted for. Who knows what happened during those years? Anybody could have it by now.”

“So it’s out there?”

“Absolutely,” Minsky says. “If you know where to look, there’s lots of unaccounted-for neptunium that’s there for the taking.”

As the consequences hit, I squirm in my seat, wiping my sweaty hands against the sides of the seat cushion. Minutes ago, I was pretending to be uncomfortable. I’m no longer faking it. Whatever branch of the government Wendell Mining really is, the news isn’t gonna be good.

“Can I just ask one question?” Viv says. “I heard what you said—I know it’s possible, and I realize you can get neptunium—but for one second, can we just talk about the likelihood? I mean, studying neutrinos—that’s a small field, right? There can only be a handful of people who are even capable of putting something like this together… So when you add that all up, and you look around the neutrino community, wouldn’t… wouldn’t you know if something like this were going on?”

Minsky again scratches at his beard. His social skills are too off to read Viv’s panic, but he understands the question. “Have you ever heard of Dr. James A. Yorke?” he finally asks. We both shake our heads. I can barely sit still. “He’s the father of chaos theory—even coined the term,” Minsky continues. “You’ve heard the metaphor, correct?—that a butterfly flapping its wings in Hong Kong can cause a hurricane in Florida? Well, as Yorke puts it, that means if there’s even one butterfly you don’t know about, it’s impossible to predict the weather on a long-term basis. One tiny butterfly. And, as the man says, there’ll always be one butterfly.”

The words collide like a sack of doorknobs. I talked Matthew into flapping his wings… and now Viv and I are swirling through the hurricane.

“It’s a big world out there,” Minsky adds, staying with Viv. “I can’t possibly account for everyone in my field. Does that make sense, Miss—I’m sorry, what was your name again?”

“We should get going,” I say, hopping to my feet.

“I thought the Congressman was on his way?” Minsky asks as we head for the door.

“We’ve already got what we needed.”

“But the briefing…”

It’s amazing, really. We just dropped poorly hid hints about a government project that could create plutonium, and he’s still worried about face time. God, what’s wrong with this town? “I’ll be sure to tell him how helpful you were,” I add, whipping the door open and motioning Viv outside.

“Please send him my best,” Minsky calls out.

He says something else, but we’re already up the hallway, running for the elevators.

“So where’re we going?” Viv asks.

The one place Janos thinks we’ll never go. “The Capitol.”

69

I DON’T UNDERSTAND,” William said as he raced down the circular stairwell. “Where’re we going?”

“Where do you think?” Lowell asked, leading them past the sign for the first floor and continuing toward the basement.

“No, I mean beyond the parking garage. Where we going after that? Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

“Tell them what? That we know who really owns Wendell? That they’re not who they say they are? Sure, they’re linked to Janos, but until we get the rest, it doesn’t do us any good. There’s nothing to tell.”

“So where does that leave us?”

“Not us,” Lowell said. “Me.” Leaping down the last few steps and shoving open the door to the basement, Lowell plowed into the parking garage. He didn’t have to go far. Deputy Attorney General gets a spot right in front. If he wanted, he could’ve been in his car within four seconds. But he still paused, searching to make sure Janos wasn’t waiting for him.

The silver Audi was empty.

With the push of a button, Lowell unlocked the car and slid inside.

“What’re you doing?” William asked as Lowell tried to shut the driver’s door.

“I’m going to see a friend,” Lowell said, starting the engine.

It wasn’t a lie. He’d known Harris for over ten years—since they both worked in Senator Stevens’s office. That was why Janos came to him in the first place.

He’d already tried Harris at work, at home, and on both his cell phones. If Harris was in hiding, there was only one place he’d be—the one place he knew best. And right now, finding Harris was the only way to get the rest of the story.

“Why don’t you at least bring some backup?” William asked.

“For what? So they can interrogate my friend? Trust me, I know how Harris thinks. We want him to talk, not panic.”

“But, sir…”

“Good-bye, William.” With a hard tug, Lowell slammed the door and punched the gas. The car peeled out of the spot. Refusing to overthink it, Lowell reminded himself who he was dealing with. If he showed up with armed agents at the Capitol—even forgetting the scene it would make—there’s no way Harris would ever go for that.

Switching on the radio, Lowell lost himself in the mental massage of talk radio. His grandmother used to love talk radio, and to this day, Lowell still used it to, in his grandmother’s words, catch his calm. As the car was filled with the top news stories, Lowell finally took a breath. For one full minute, he forgot about Harris, and Wendell, and the rest of the chaos circling through his head. But as a result, he missed the black sedan that was trailing a few hundred feet behind him as he pulled out of the parking garage and into the daylight.

70

TRUST ME, I know how Harris thinks. We want him to talk, not panic.”

“But, sir…”

“Good-bye, William.”

Tucked back among the rows of cars and hidden by nothing more than a nearby parking spot, Janos watched the exchange from the front seat of his black sedan. The crinkle in Lowell’s forehead… the desperation on his face… even the slant on his assistant’s shoulders. Lowell asked William to stay quiet, but he was still protesting. Janos narrowed his eyes, focusing intensely on William’s slouched shoulders. From this distance it was hard to get a read. The creases in his white, wrinkled button-down said he was still wearing his shirts twice to save cash. But his brand-new belt… Gucci… Mom and Dad bought that. The kid’s from cash—which means he’ll follow his boss’s directions.

“I told you Lowell wouldn’t sit still… he won’t focus on anyone but himself,” Barry said through the cell phone.

“Quiet,” Janos warned. He didn’t like talking to Barry—the paranoia was always too much, even if it was a perfect button to push. Still, he had to admit, Barry was right about Lowell.

In the distance, Lowell slammed the car door shut. His tires howled as he pulled out of his parking spot. For a few seconds, William lingered, craning his neck as he watched his boss disappear… then finally headed back toward the stairs.

With a twist of his wrist, Janos turned the key in the ignition. The sedan coughed awake, but Janos quickly looked down, putting his open hand on the dashboard. Typical, he thought. Bad idle. The cam needed more lift.

“You should’ve called me in earlier,” Barry said in his ear. “If you came to me before you went to Pasternak—”

“If it weren’t for Pasternak, Harris would’ve never been in the game.”

“That’s not true. He’s more jaded than you think he is. He just wants you to think—”

“Keep believing that,” Janos said, giving Lowell just enough of a lead. As the silver Audi turned the corner, Janos hit the gas and slowly pulled out after him.

“Any idea where he’s headed?” Barry asked.

“Not yet,” Janos said, leaving the parking lot and turning onto the street. Directly in front of him was a classic orange Beetle. Four cars ahead of that, Lowell’s Audi wove in and out of traffic. And a mile or so beyond them all, at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue, the dome of the Capitol arched toward the sky.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” he said to Barry. “He’s not going very far.”

71

NEXT GROUP, PLEASE! Next group!” the Capitol policeman calls out, waving us toward the visitor’s entrance on the west front of the Capitol. Shuffling behind the twenty-person group of high-schoolers armed with Future President baseball caps, Viv and I keep our heads down and our government IDs hidden beneath our shirts. On average, the west front handles four million visitors a year, making it a constant crowded mess of map- and camera-wielding tourists. Most days, staffers avoid it at all costs. That’s exactly why we’re here.

As the group shoves its way inside, I’m once again reminded that the Capitol is the only building in the world with no back—both the west front (overlooking the Mall) and the east front (overlooking the Supreme Court) claim to be the true front. Mostly, it’s because, with so many self-important people in one place, they all want to think their wonderful view is the best. Even the north side and south side get into the act, calling themselves the Senate entrance and House entrance. Four sides of a building, and not one of them is the back. Only in Congress.

Lost amid the tour groups, we’re in the one place where no one checks our ID or looks at us for more than a second. With this many people moving, all we can do is blend in.

“Put all cameras and phones on the X-ray,” one of the guards says to the group. It’s a simple request, but the students turn it into the final moments on the Titanic. Talking, bitching, moving—everything a fuss. As the kids make their usual scene, Viv and I slip through the metal detector without a second glance.

We stay with the group as they make their way under the grand domed ceiling of the rotunda and directly below to the Crypt, the circular room that now serves as an exhibition area for blueprints, drawings, and other historical Capitol documents. The guide explains that the rounded shape of the Crypt structurally supports not only the rotunda but also the Capitol dome directly above it. On cue, the entire group crane their necks up to the ceiling—and Viv and I slip out to the right, through the doorway next to the Samuel Adams statue. Racing down a wide set of sandstone stairs, I reach into my shirt and pull out the chain with my ID. Behind me, I can hear Viv’s jingling around her neck. From tourists to staffers in one minute or less.

“Narcs…” Viv whispers as we hit the bottom step. She motions to our far right. Up the hallway, two Capitol police are headed our way. They still don’t see us, but I’m not about to take a chance. Grabbing Viv’s wrist, I twist around the marble banister and tug her to the right, off the main hallway. A freestanding sign reads, No Tours Beyond This Point. I blow past it so fast, I almost knock it over. I’ve been back here before—it’s still open to staff. The hallway dead-ends at a black wrought-iron gate with a slight arch on top.

“Isn’t it amazing?” I ask Viv, shoving some pep in my voice.

“Incredible,” she says, following my lead. Behind the gate, under a rectangular glass case, a long black cloth is draped over what looks like a coffin. The plaque on our right, however, tells us it’s the wooden catafalque that supported the bodies of Lincoln, Kennedy, LBJ, and everyone else who has ever lain in state in the Capitol.

Over my shoulder, the click-clack of boots on the floor lets me know the Capitol cops are just about to pass. Trying to look like staffers but feeling like prisoners, Viv and I hold tight to the bars, staring into the tiny concrete cell. Located at the direct center of the Capitol, the small, dank room was originally designed to be a tomb for George and Martha Washington. Today, their bodies are at Mount Vernon, and this room is just for storing the catafalque. I shut my eyes. The Capitol police are getting closer. I try to stay focused, but even without Washington’s remains, this crouched little space still smells like death.

“Harris, they’re coming…” Viv whispers.

Back in the hallway, the footsteps are right behind us. One of them stops. There’s a crackle through his radio. Next to me, I can hear Viv praying.

“Yeah, we’ll be right there,” one of the cops says. The footsteps pick up—there’s no doubt they’re getting closer—and then, just like that, they’re gone.

As usual, Viv’s first to react. Spinning around, she slowly checks back toward the hallway. “I think we’re okay,” she says. “Yeah… they left.”

Refusing to turn around, I still cling to the bars.

“Harris, we should hurry…”

I know she’s right—we’re almost there—but as I stare at the dark black shroud… watching it drape lifelessly over the almost hundred-and-fifty-year-old coffin stand… I can’t help but feel that, if we’re not careful, the next bodies around here are going to be our own.

“You sure this is the way?” Viv asks, running in front of me even though I’m supposed to be leading.

“Keep going,” I tell her as she follows the hallway to the right, weaving us even deeper through the sand-colored corridors of the concrete basement. Unlike the rest of the Capitol, the halls down here are narrow and cramped, a labyrinth of random turns that’s taken us past garbage rooms, paint storage, HVAC equipment, and every type of repair shop from electrical to plumbing to elevator care. Worst of all, the further we go, the more the ceiling seems to shrink, the headroom eaten up by air ducts, water pipes, and random wiring. When I used to bring Matthew down here, he would bitch because he’d have to duck to get around. Viv and I don’t have that problem.

“You swear this looks familiar?” Viv asks as the ceiling gets lower.

“Absolutely,” I tell her. I don’t blame her for being nervous. In the more heavily trafficked areas, there’re signs on the walls to make sure Members and staff don’t get lost. I glance up at the spider web of cracks along the walls. We haven’t seen a sign for at least three minutes. On top of that, as we go deeper, the hallway seems to fill up with stacks of discarded equipment: broken file cabinets, antique upholstered chairs, industrial-sized spools of cable wire, rolling garbage bins, even a stack of old rusted pipes.

We haven’t seen another human being since we passed the last sign for the elevator. Indeed, the only hint of life is the hum of machinery from the surrounding mechanical rooms. Viv’s still ahead of me, but with a final sharp right, she stops. I hear her shoes skid across the dusty floor. As I turn the corner behind her, the furniture and wiring and pipes are stacked higher than ever. It’s not hard to read her thoughts. Like any other bad neighborhood, the further we go, the less we should be walking alone.

“I really don’t think this is right,” she insists. “You’re not supposed to.”

She thinks I’m being glib. I’m not.

Rushing forward, I pass half a dozen closed doors on my right and left. Most of them, like ninety percent of the doors throughout the Capitol, have a sign out front that tells you exactly what’s inside. Electrical Substation. Senate Daily Digest. Even one that says Designated Smoking Area. One is unmarked. That’s the one I go for—room ST-56, the nondescript, unlabeled door that’s halfway down the hall on my left.

“This is it?” Viv asks. “It looks like a broom closet.”

“Really?” I ask, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a set of keys. “How many broom closets do you know that have a double set of deadbolts?”

Stabbing the keys into their respective locks, I give the doorknob a sharp twist. The door is heavier than it looks—I have to put my entire shoulder against it to get it open. As it gives way, I jab the light switch with my fist and finally give Viv a good look at what’s inside.

The first thing she notices is the ceiling. Unlike the air-duct limbo stick they force you under in the hall, the ceiling inside rises up at least twenty feet over the long, spacious room. Against the warm burgundy walls, there’s a chocolate brown leather couch, flanked by matching Empire mahogany dressers. Above the couch, a collection of antique toy sailboats is mounted to the wall. Adding to the men’s-club feel, there’s also a twelve-foot fish—I’m guessing a marlin—up on the left-hand wall, a bag of golf clubs just inside the door, and on the right side of the room, an enormous 1898 nautical map of the Atlantic Coast from the Chesapeake Bay to the Jupiter Inlet.

Viv looks at the room for a total of thirty seconds. “Hideaway?” she asks.

I nod and grin.

Some people say there are no more secrets in Washington. It’s a nice, quotable statement. But it clearly comes from someone who doesn’t have a hideaway.

On the stepladders of power, some Members of Congress have great committee assignments. Others have great office space for their staff. A few get preferential parking right outside the Capitol. And a very few get personal drivers to make them look extra important. Then, there are those who have hideaways.

They’re the best-kept secret in the Capitol—private sanctuaries for a Senator to get away from staff, lobbyists, and the dreaded tour groups who want just-one-quick-photo-please-we-came-all-this-way. How private are they? Even the architect of the Capitol, who manages the entire building, doesn’t have a full list of who’s in each one. Most aren’t even on the floor plan, which is just how the Senators like it.

“So what does Stevens use this for?” Viv asks.

“Let me put it to you like this…” Over her shoulder, I point to the round light switch on the wall.

“A dimmer switch?” Viv asks, already disgusted. “Had it installed his first week in here. Apparently, it’s a popular option—right after power windows and power brakes.”

She can tell I’m trying to keep things calm. It only makes her more nervous.

“So how do you know the Senator won’t come down here any minute?”

“He doesn’t use this one anymore—not since he got the one with the fireplace.”

“Wait… he has more than one hideaway?”

“C’mon, you really think they keep this stuff fair? When LBJ was majority leader, he had seven. This is just a spare these days. There’s no way he’d—”

My eyes stop on the hand-carved coffee table. A set of keys with a familiar key ring sits on top.

There’s a loud flush of a toilet. Viv and I spin left, back by the bathroom. The light’s on under the door. Then it goes black. Before either of us can run, the bathroom door swings open.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Lowell says, stepping out into the room. “Now do you want to know what you’ve gotten yourself into or not?”

72

WHAT’RE YOU DOING?” I ask, my voice already booming through the small room.

“Take it easy,” Viv says.

“Listen to her,” Lowell says, trying to sound concerned. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

He nods at Viv, trying to make it look like she’s taking his side. He’s been Deputy Attorney General too long. All he’s got now are old tricks. He taught me that one the first year I worked for him in the Senator’s office.

“How’d you get in here?” I ask.

“Same as you. When I was chief of staff, they gave me a key.”

“You’re supposed to give it back when you leave.”

“Only if they ask for it,” Lowell says, pretending to be playful. Strike two. He may’ve been a great friend, but that disappeared the moment he sent me running out of that restaurant.

“I know what you’re thinking, Harris—but you don’t understand the position I was in. He threatened my family… came to my daughter’s playground… even smashed my head when I tipped you off that night,” he says, showing me the Band-Aid on the back of his head.

Now he’s going for sympathy. Strike three and he’s out. “Fuck you, Lowell! You understand me? Fuck you! The only reason Janos was there that night was because you told him! You set it up!”

“Harris, please…”

“So what’s the next dart you’ll jab in my neck? Did you tell him I’d be hiding here, too, or is that what you’re saving for dessert?”

“I swear to you, Harris—I’m not working with him.”

“Oh, and I’m supposed to believe you now?”

“Harris, let’s just go,” Viv says, grabbing my arm. “Do you even realize how stupid it was to come here?” I ask. “You think Janos didn’t follow your every step?”

“If he did, he’d be standing here right now,” Lowell points out. It’s a fair point. “Now can’t you just listen for a second?” he begs.

“Whattya mean, like trust you? Sorry, Lowell, we’re all sold out of that this week!”

Realizing he’s getting nowhere, he studies Viv and sees his new target. “Young lady, can you…?”

“Don’t talk to her, Lowell!”

“Harris, I’m fine,” Viv says.

“Stay away from her, Lowell! She’s not part of—” I cut myself off, fighting to stay in control. Don’t lose it, I tell myself. I bite the inside of my cheek just to kill the rage. We’re running out of time. I open the door and point Lowell toward it. “Good-bye, Lowell.”

“Can’t you just—?”

“Good-bye.”

“But I—”

“Get out, Lowell. Now!”

“Harris, I know who they are,” he finally blurts.

Watching him carefully, I check the pitch of his eyebrows and the anxious tilt of his neck. I’ve known Lowell Nash most of my professional life. No one’s that good a liar. “What’re you talking about?” I ask.

“I know about the Wendell Group… or whatever they call themselves. I had them put through the system. At first glance, they’re as solid as Sears—registered in Delaware, doing a furniture-importing business—but when you dig a little deeper, you see they’re a subsidiary of a corporation in Idaho, which has a partnership in Montana, which is part of a holding company that’s registered back in Antigua… The list kept going, layer upon layer, but the whole thing’s a front.”

“For the government, right?”

“How’d you know?”

“You could see it in the lab. Only a government would have that kind of cash.”

“What lab?” Lowell asks.

“In the mine.” From the look on his face, this is all brand-new. “In South Dakota… they’ve got an entire lab hidden in an old gold mine,” I explain. “You could tell from the machinery that the experiments—”

“They were building something?”

“That’s why we—”

“Tell me what they were building.”

“This is gonna sound nuts…”

“Just say it, Harris. What were they making?”

I look at Viv. She knows we don’t have a choice. If Lowell were in on it, he wouldn’t be asking the question.

“Plutonium,” I say. “We think they’re creating plutonium… from the atomic level up.”

Lowell stands there, frozen. His face goes pale. I’ve seen him nervous before, but never like this.

“We have to call someone…” he stutters. His arm flies into his jacket pocket, reaching for his cell phone.

“You can’t get a signal down here.”

Seeing I’m right, he scans the office. “Is there a…?”

“On the dresser,” I say, pointing to the phone. Lowell’s fingers pound across the digits, dialing his assistant. “William, it’s me… Yeah,” he says, pausing a moment. “Just listen. I need you to call the AG. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He again stops. “I don’t care. Pull him out of it.”

Lowell slams down the phone and races for the door. “It still doesn’t make sense,” Viv calls out. “Why would the U.S. government build plutonium when we already have plenty? All it can do is get in the wrong hands…”

Lowell stops and turns. “What’d you say?”

“I-It doesn’t make—”

“After that.”

“Why would the U.S. government—?”

“What makes you think it’s our government?” Lowell asks.

“Pardon?” I ask.

Viv’s just as confused. “I thought you said…”

“You have no idea who owns Wendell, do you?” Lowell asks.

The room’s so silent, I hear the blood flowing through my ears. “Lowell, what the hell is going on?” I ask.

“We traced it back, Harris. It was well hidden: Idaho, Montana—all the states that make it harder to do a good corporate records search. Whoever set it up knew all the magic tricks. After Antigua, it bounced to a fake board of directors in Turks and Caicos—which was no help, of course—but they also listed a registered agent with a local address in Belize. Naturally, the address was fake, but the name… it went to the owner of a government-owned concrete company in, of all places, Sana’a.”

“Sana’a?”

“Capital city of Yemen.”

“Yemen? You’re telling me Wendell Mining is a front for Yemen?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“That’s where the records run—and do you have any idea what happens if they start making plutonium and selling it to whoever’s got the fattest money clip? Know how many lunatics would line up for that?”

“All of them.”

“All of them,” Lowell repeats. “And if even one of them gets close… we’ve gone to war for far less than that.”

“I-It’s impossible… they gave money… they were on the wish list… all the names…”

“Believe me, I’ve been looking for a single Arabic name on the list. These guys usually only hire their own, but the way they’re hidden… I’m guessing they brought in someone over here to put on a public face and grease the right pockets—some CEO-type so it all looks clean. We’re looking at this guy Andre Saulson, whose name is on one of Wendell’s bank accounts. The name’s probably fake, but one of our boys noticed the address matches an old listing we had for someone named Sauls. It’ll take some time to confirm, but he fits the mold. London School of Economics… Sophia University in Tokyo. We looked at him a few years back for art fraud—he was supposedly trying to move the Vase of Warka when it was snatched from Iraq’s National Museum, which is probably how the Yemenis found him. Very high-end scams. Yemen brings him in for credibility, then Sauls hires Janos to flatten out the speed bumps, and maybe even another guy to help them maneuver through the system…”

“Pasternak… That’s how they got into the game.”

“Exactly. They bring in Pasternak—he may not even know who they really are—and now they’ve got one of the best players in town. All they have to do is get their gold mine. You have to give them credit. Why risk the wrath of inspectors in the Middle East when you can build your bomb right in our own backyard without anyone thinking twice? Set it up right, and Congress will even give you the land for free.”

My stomach plummets. I can barely stand up.

“W-What do we do now?” Viv asks, her whole face already shiny with sweat.

We’re not just out of our league—we don’t even know what sport they’re playing.

Running back toward the hallway, Lowell’s already in rescue mode. “Lock the doors behind me—both bolts. Time to ring the king.”

I’ve heard the term before. Once he gets to the Attorney General, they’re calling in the White House.

As Lowell disappears from the room, Viv notices his keys on the coffee table. “Lowell, wait…!” she calls out, grabbing the key ring and following him outside.

“Viv, don’t!” I shout. Too late. She dashes into the hallway.

As I run for the door, I hear Viv scream. I step out into the hall just as she backs into me. Up the hallway, barely around the corner, Janos presses his forearm against Lowell’s neck, pinning him to the wall. Before I can even react, Janos pulls his black box from Lowell’s chest. Lowell’s body convulses slightly, then drops life-lessly to the floor. His body hits with two dull thuds—first his knees, then his forehead—echoing through the empty hallway. It’s a sound that’ll never leave me. I look down at my friend. His eyes are still open, staring blankly at us.

Janos doesn’t say a word. He just lunges forward.

73

RUN!” I shout to Viv, yanking her by the shoulder and pushing her further up the hallway, away from Janos.

As Janos barrels toward me, he lets out a smirk, trying to intimidate. He expects me to run. That’s why I stay put. This lunatic’s killed three of my friends. He’s not getting a fourth.

“Keep going!” I call to Viv, making sure she has enough of a lead.

From the angle Janos is coming from, he can’t see what I’m looking at: Just inside the door of the hideaway, the Senator’s leather golf bag leans against the wall. I reach for the clubs, but Janos is moving too fast.

Just as my hand grabs a shiny nine iron, he plows into me, slamming me backward into the threshold of the doorway. My back lets out a loud crack, but I still don’t let go of the club. Pinning me like Lowell, he stabs the black box at my chest; I knock his arm aside with the tip of the club. Before he realizes what’s happening, I ram my head forward, head-butting him as hard as I can in the nose. Same place I hit the scientist in the mine. The sweet spot, my uncle called it. Sure enough, a trickle of blood runs down from Janos’s left nostril, across the top of his lip. His hound-dog eyes widen the slightest bit. He’s actually surprised. Time to take advantage.

“Get… off!” I shout, seizing the moment and shoving him backward. Before he can get his balance, I hold up the golf club like a baseball bat and rush straight at him. Sometimes the best chess is played fast. As I swing the club, he protects the black box, cradling it close to his chest. He thinks I’m going high. That’s why I go low, arcing the club downward and smashing him as hard as I can in the side of his knee.

It’s like hitting a boulder. There’s a loud crack, and the club vibrates in my hands. I still don’t let go. At the last second, he rolls with the impact, but it’s enough to send his leg buckling beneath him. Like before, he barely lets out a grunt. I’m not impressed. Feeling good, I move in closer for another swing. That’s my mistake. As he falls to the ground, he never takes his eyes off my club. Before I can even wind up again, he yanks the nine iron from my hands. He’s so fast, I barely see it happen. It’s a quick reminder I can’t beat him head-on. Still, I got what I wanted. Behind me, Viv’s turned the corner. Now we’ve got a head start.

Janos slams against the concrete floor. I turn and sprint as hard as I can up the hallway. As I turn the corner, I practically plow into Viv.

“What’re you doing?” I ask, sidestepping around her. She falls in step right behind me. “I said to run.”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay.” She’s trying to sound strong. It’s not working.

Behind us, the golf club scrapes against the concrete floor. Janos is getting up. As he starts running, the echoes of his footsteps are off beat. He’s definitely limping—but the beat’s getting quicker. He’s shaking it off.

Frantically scrambling past the stacks of old furniture scattered on each side of us, I search the hallway for help. Down here, most of the doors are locked and unmarked.

“What about that one?” Viv asks, pointing to a door that’s marked Sergeant At Arms. I lunge for the doorknob. It doesn’t twist. Damn. Locked.

“This one, too,” Viv says, trying a closed door on our right. I hear her panting over my shoulder. We’re running out of hallway, and unlike last time, the Capitol police are too far away. We have a short lead, but it’s not enough—not unless we do something quick.

Up ahead, on our left, there’s a loud mechanical hum. It’s the only door that’s open. The sign on it reads:

Danger

Mechanical Equipment Space

Authorized Personnel Only

I look over my shoulder to see how we’re doing. Down the hallway, Janos tears around the corner like a wounded tiger. He’s got the golf club in one hand and the black box in the other. Even with the limp, he’s already charging fast.

“Move…” I say, tugging Viv toward the open door. Anything to get us out of his line of vision.

Inside, the concrete room is narrow but deep—I can’t even see the end of it—filled with row after row of buzzing ten-foot-tall industrial air-handlers, exhaust fans, and air compressors, all of them interconnected by a crisscrossing jungle of spiral ductwork that snakes out in every direction like the tendrils of a 1950s robot. Overhead, gas lines, copper tubing, and electrical work combine with the various pipes and ducts as they weave their way across the ceiling and block what little fluorescent lighting the room already has.

By the door, there’s a wall full of circular glass pressure gauges that haven’t been used in years, as well as two rolling garbage cans, an empty box of air filters, and an empty, filthy mop bucket with a few random tools stored inside. Behind the garbage cans, a dark green army blanket sits crumpled on the floor, barely covering a row of six metal propane tanks.

“Hurry… C’mere…” I whisper to Viv, clutching her shoulder and tugging her toward the tanks.

“What’re you—?”

“Shhhh. Just duck.” Shoving her downward, I grab the blanket and drape it over her head.

“Harris, this isn’t—”

“Listen to me.”

“But I—”

“Dammit, Viv—for once, listen,” I scold. She doesn’t like the tone. But right now, she needs it. “Wait till he runs past,” I tell her. “When he’s gone, go get help.”

“But then you’re—” She cuts herself off. “You can’t beat him, Harris.”

“Go get help. I’ll be fine.”

“He’ll kill you.”

“Please, Viv—just get help.” Our eyes lock, and she stares straight through me. When Viv first saw me speaking to her page class, and then heard about the Lorax story, she thought I was invincible. So did I. Now I know better. And so does she. Realizing what I’m asking, she starts tearing up. After everything we’ve been through, she doesn’t want to leave.

Kneeling down, I give her a tiny kiss on her forehead. “Viv…”

“Shh,” she says, refusing to listen. “Say a prayer with me.”

“What? Now? You know I don’t believe in—”

“Just once,” she pleads. “One little prayer. My last favor.”

With no choice, I lower my head. Viv’s is already down. She grabs my hands as I close my eyes. It doesn’t do any good. My mind’s racing too fast, and then… as the silence seeps in… God, please take care of Viv Parker. That’s all I ask. I’m sorry for everything else… My brain empties, and my eyes stay shut.

“Now was that so bad?” Viv asks, breaking the quiet. I shake my head. “You’re an amazing person, Vivian. And you’re gonna make a great Senator one day.”

“Yeah, well… I’m still gonna need a great chief of staff.”

It’s a sweet joke, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I haven’t felt this bad since my dad died. I feel the pregnant lump at the center of my throat. “I’ll be fine,” I promise, forcing a smile.

Before Viv can argue, I pull the blanket over her head, and she disappears from sight. Just another hidden propane tank. Convincing myself she’s safe, I go for the tools, searching for a weapon. Needle-nose pliers… electrical tape… a tape measure… and a box of industrial razor blades. I grab the razor blades, but as I flick open the box, the blades are gone. Needle-nose pliers it is.

Darting deeper into the room, I clang the pliers against the side of every metal machine I pass and make as much noise as possible. Anything to keep Janos moving past Viv. I keep telling myself this is the best way to protect her. Stop the ride and let her off. As I turn the corner behind an enormous air-conditioning unit, there’s a scraping sound back by the door. Italian shoes skid to a stop.

Janos is here. Viv is hidden. And I’m ducked behind a metal grille that comes up to my chin. I pound the grille, pretending to hit it by accident. Janos starts running. C’mon, Viv, I say to myself, mouthing a final silent prayer. Now’s your chance…

74

THE SCRATCHY, STAINED army blanket reeked from a mixture of sawdust and kerosene, but as Viv ducked her head between her knees and shut her eyes, the smell was the last of her worries. Tucked underneath the olive green cloak, she could hear the scratching of Janos’s shoes as he entered the room. From the noise Harris was making—banging on what sounded like sheet metal in the distance—she figured Janos would run. And for a few steps, he did. Then he stopped. Right in front of her.

Holding her breath, Viv did her best to remain motionless. Instinctively she opened her eyes, but the only thing she could see was the tip of her right foot sticking out from underneath the blanket. Was it covered up, or was that what Janos was looking at? As a slow grumble rippled through the air, Janos pivoted slightly, bits of concrete grinding beneath the tips of his shoes. Knowing better than to move, Viv gripped her knees, digging her nails into her own shins.

“Hurry…!” Harris whispered in the distance, his voice echoing down the concrete hall.

Janos stopped, twisting back toward the sound.

Viv knew it was Harris’s lame way to distract, but as Janos started running, it was clearly working.

Counting to herself, Viv was careful not to rush it. Don’t move an eyebrow until he’s long gone. Once again, she held her breath—not just to hide, but to take in every sound. The rumble of the air-conditioning units… the buzz of the overhead lights… and most important of all, the light rasp of Harris’s footsteps fading in the distance… and the gnawing, quick shuffle of Janos’s shoes as he gave chase right behind him.

Even when they were out of earshot, Viv still took another few seconds, just to be safe. Finally peeking out from below the blanket, she scanned the entryway. Nothing anywhere. Just some garbage cans and her fellow propane tanks. With a sharp snap, she whipped the blanket off her shoulders and sent it flying toward the trash.

Scurrying for the door, Viv burst out into the hallway and followed it back around to the left. “Help!” she cried. “Someone… we need help!” As before, the piles of discarded office furniture were the only things to hear her call. Mapping her way back to the Capitol police, she raced for the short staircase up on her left—but just as she turned the corner, she smacked flat into the chest of a tall man in a crisp pinstriped suit. The impact was hard—her nose collided with his magenta Zegna tie, pressing it against his chest. To Viv’s surprise, the man managed to backstep and roll with it. Almost as if he heard her coming.

“Help… I need help,” Viv said, her voice racing.

“Take it easy,” Barry replied, his glass eye staring just off to the left as he put a hand on her arm. “Now tell me what’s going on…”

75

RUSHING THROUGH THE twisting aisle between two adjacent air compressors, I listen carefully for Janos, but the churning of the equipment drowns out every other noise. At the entrance it was noisy; back here it’s deafening. It’s like running through rows of revving eighteen-wheelers. The machines back here are all oversized dinosaurs. The only good part is, if I can’t hear him, he can’t hear me.

At the end of the aisle, I follow the path around to my right. To my surprise, the room keeps going, a labyrinth of ductwork and ventilation machinery that never seems to end, each room bleeding into the next. On my left, there’s a section of oval tanks that look like industrial water heaters. On my right, there’s an even bigger rectangular compressor with a giant motor on top. There are three different paths, which can take me in any direction: right, left, straight. To the untrained eye, with machine next to machine and all the ductwork blocking a clear line of sight, it’s easy to get lost and turned around. That’s why there’s a faded yellow line painted across parts of the floor. I’m guessing that’s what the maintenance people use to get in and out. I use it to the same effect, but instead of sticking to the line and giving Janos an easy trail to follow, I purposely avoid it, always picking a random path.

Halfway up the aisle, I crouch under a section of ductwork and follow the adjacent aisle even deeper into the dark room, which is looking more and more like a true cellar. Mildewed brick walls… damp, mud-caked floors… and not a window in sight. The cracked plaster ceiling runs low like a cave, then arches twenty feet upward to black, unlit peaks.

The further I go, the more the machinery thins out, and the quieter it gets. A cool draft blows against my face, giving me flashbacks to the wind tunnels in the gold mine. There must be an open door somewhere in the distance. On both sides of me, stacks of intertwining ductwork still block my view, but I can hear the pounding of heavy footsteps. Janos is getting closer. The sound echoes on my right, then my left. It doesn’t make sense. He can’t be in two places at once.

I spin around to follow the noise. My elbow crashes into one of the ducts, sending a metallic gurgle reverberating through the room. I shut my eyes and duck low so fast, my knuckles hit the concrete. Then I hear the metallic rumble echo behind me. Way behind me. Raising an eyebrow, I glance up at the dark arches of the ceiling. A high-pitched whistle rushes overhead. Huh. Down on my knees, I flick a finger against the duct. There’s a light ping on impact, followed by an echo of the ping about thirty feet over my shoulder. It’s like the sound equivalent of a hall of mirrors.

When the Capitol was first built, air-conditioning didn’t exist, so when the Congressmen complained about the stifling temperatures in the Senate and House Chambers, an elaborate system of natural air tunnels was built underground. From outside, air would flow though subterranean tunnels, weave its way up into the building, and from there, snake through internal tunnels that resemble stone-lined air-conditioning ducts, eventually bringing cool air into the building’s cavernous rooms that didn’t have the benefit of exterior windows. To this day, while it’s obviously been updated, the system is still in place, collecting fresh air that’s fed directly into the air-conditioning units, then pumped through the still-existing ducts and a few remaining passages.

I quickly realize I’m not just in the cellar. The way the wind whips around me… the echoing sound… I thought the air tunnels were running above and below me. But as I look around at the rounded curves of the walls… This entire room is one giant tunnel. I’ve been standing in it the entire time. That’s the breeze I feel on my face. And that’s why all the air-conditioning units are here. The subterranean tunnels burrow up from below us, empty into this room, and feed all the machines fresh air. Glancing up at the dark arches in the ceiling, I see they’re not dead ends at all. Beyond the darkness are the passageways that run up through the Capitol. This is the hub that feeds the spokes of the building. Like air-conditioning ducts, the tunnels are all interconnected. That’s why Janos’s footsteps echoed on my left and right. Tap the metal grille on your right and you’ll also hear it from behind. It’s a good thing to know—especially right now.

Crouched down, I run between two parallel sets of air ducts and hear Janos’s footsteps in three different directions. All three of them are getting louder, but because of the whistling of the air tunnel and the faint churning of the machines, it’s still impossible to tell which set of footsteps is coming first. The only good thing is, Janos is having the same problem.

“We’ve already got help coming!” I shout, hearing it echo behind me. “Capitol police are on their way!” I’m headed toward the left side of the room. With the help of the echo, Janos should hear it from the right. It’s not the greatest trick in the world, but right now all I need is to stall. Buy some time and let Viv ride in for the rescue.

“Did you hear what I said, Janos?! They’re on their way!” I add, hoping to confuse him as my voice bounces back and forth through the room.

Once again, he stays silent. He’s too smart to answer. That’s why I decide to get personal.

“You don’t strike me as a fanatic, Janos—so how’d they get you to sign up? Something against the United States, or was it purely a financial decision?”

There’s a sharp skritch as he pivots and backtracks. The sound’s coming from behind him. He’s definitely lost.

“C’mon, Janos—I mean, even for a guy like you, there’s gotta be some limits. Just because a man has to eat, doesn’t mean you lick every piece of gum off the sidewalk.”

The footsteps get louder, then softer as he second-guesses. Now he’s annoyed.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I continue, stooping underneath a section of air vents and hiding behind one of the oval water heaters. “I understand life is about picking sides, but these guys… Not to stereotype, but I’ve seen you, Janos. You’re not exactly from their nest. They may want us dead now, but you’re not too far down the list.”

The footsteps get slower.

“You think I’m wrong? They’ll not only put a knife in your spine, they’ll know exactly which two vertebrae to stick it between to make sure you feel every single inch of the blade. C’mon, Janos, think of who we’re talking about… This is Yemen—”

The footsteps stop.

I lift my head, staring back across the room. Unreal. “They didn’t tell you, did they?” I ask. “You had no idea.”

Again, silence.

“What, you think I’m making it up? It’s Yemen, Janos. You’re working for Yemen!” I sneak out from behind the water heater and curve back in Janos’s direction, still crouching low. With a light tap, I hit another machine with the pliers. The more I keep moving, the harder it is to trace me. “How’d they hide it from you, anyway? Let me guess: they hired some CEO-type to make it look like an American company; then that guy goes out and hires you. How’m I doing? Hot? Cold? Feet on fire?”

He still won’t answer. For once, he’s actually off balance.

“Didn’t you ever see The Godfather? The hired guns don’t ever get to meet the real boss.”

The last part’s just to get him raging. I don’t hear a footstep anywhere. He’s either taking it in or trying to follow the sound of my voice. Either way, there’s not a chance he’s thinking straight.

Hunched over and staying completely silent, I weave behind a ten-foot-tall blower fan that’s encased in the dustiest metal grille I’ve ever seen. Connected to the grille is a long aluminum duct that runs a good twenty feet across the room, back toward the door. In front of me, the blades of the fan spin slowly, so when I time it just right, I can see through the length of the duct, out the other side. I take a peek, and almost swallow my tongue when I see the back of a familiar salt-and-pepper crewcut.

Dropping down low, I squat beneath the grille of the fan. From where I’m crouched, I have a clear view that runs along the underside of the long duct. There’s no mistaking the Ferragamo shoes on the other end. Janos is dead ahead, and from the way he’s standing there, frozen in frustration, he has no idea I’m behind him.

Gripping the needle-nose pliers in my sweaty fist, I keep to my squat and get ready to move forward. Within three seconds, I talk myself out of it. I’ve seen enough Friday the 13th sequels to know how this one ends. The man’s a killer. All I have to do is stay hidden—anything else is a bad-horror-flick risk. The thing is, the longer I sit here, the better the odds of him turning around and staring straight at me. At least this way, I’ve got surprise on my side. And after what he did to Matthew, and Pasternak, and Lowell… some things are worth the risk.

Crouched down and steeling myself with one last deep breath, I slowly chicken-walk forward. One hand skates lightly against the side of the metal vent; the other holds tight to the needle-nose pliers. I duck down even lower to check underneath the length of the vent. Janos is still at the far end, struggling to pinpoint my location. From this section of the room, the rumble of the machines makes it harder than ever. Still, I take it as slow as possible, being cautious with every step.

I’m about ten feet away. From my current angle, Janos’s upper body is blocked by the length of the vent. I can see the tip of his right shoulder. Moving in a bit closer, I get the back of his head and the rest of his arm. Less than five feet to go. He’s looking around—definitely lost. In his right hand is the black box, which looks like an old Walkman. In his left is the Senator’s nine iron. If I’m right, those are the only weapons he’s got. Anything else—a knife or a gun—he’d never get through the metal detector.

He’s just a few feet away. I grit my teeth and raise the pliers. The wind whips through the tunnel, almost like it’s picking up speed. Below my feet, there’s a slight crackle. A stray piece of plaster snaps in half. I freeze. Janos doesn’t move.

He didn’t hear it. Everything’s okay. Counting to myself, I shift my weight, ready to pounce.

I’m so close, I can see the stitching on the back belt loop of his slacks, and the overgrown stubble on the back of his neck. I almost forgot how big he is. From down here, he’s a giant. I tighten my jaw and raise the pliers even higher. On three: one… two…

Springing upward, I jack-in-the-box straight at him and aim the pliers at the back of his neck. In a blur, Janos spins around, holding the neck of the golf club and swatting the pliers from my hand. They go flying across the room. Before I can even react, he’s got his other arm up in the air. In one quick movement, it arcs downward. And the black box stabs directly at my chest.

76

HURRY… WE HAVE to get help!” Viv insisted, tugging on the sleeve of Barry’s jacket.

“Relax, I already did,” Barry said, scanning the hallway. “They should be here any second. Now where’s Harris?”

“There…” she said, pointing back to the machinery room.

“What’re you pointing at? The door?”

“You can see?” Viv asked.

“Just outlines and shadows. Take me there…” Grabbing Viv’s elbow, he rushed forward, forcing her toward the door.

“Are you nuts?” Viv asked.

“I thought you said he was in there with Janos.”

“I did, but—”

“So what would you rather do—stay out here and wait for the Capitol cops, or get in there and maybe save his life? He’s alone against Janos. If Harris doesn’t get help now, it’s not going to matter.”

“B-But you’re blind…”

“So? All we need right now are bodies. Janos is smart—if two people walk in, he’s not risking a confrontation. He’ll run. Now you coming or not?”

Lost in the rush, Viv trailed Barry slightly as he tapped his cane through the hallway. Looking over her shoulder, she once again checked for the Capitol police. Barry was right. They were running out of time. Picking up speed, she quickly led him forward. She wasn’t leaving Harris alone.

Halfway up the hall, they passed Lowell’s lifeless body, still sprawled against the ground.

Viv glanced up at Barry. His eyes stared vacantly ahead. He couldn’t see it.

“Lowell’s dead,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

She looked back at the frozen body. Lowell’s mouth was wide open, lost in a final, soundless scream. “I’m sure.” Turning back to Lowell, she added, “Was he the one who called you?”

“What?”

“Lowell. Was he the one who called you? Is that how you knew to come?”

“Yeah,” Barry said. “Lowell called.”

Barry’s cane collided with the base of the door. Viv reached out for the doorknob. As she pushed the door open, a cool burst of air brushed against her face.

“How’s it look?” Barry whispered.

Peeking inside, she made sure it was clear. Nothing had changed. The mop bucket. The propane tanks. Even the army blanket was right where she’d left it. Further back in the room, though, she heard a deep, guttural grunt. Like someone in pain.

“Harris…!” she cried, tugging Barry into the room. As fast as she moved, he held tight to her elbow. She thought about leaving him behind, but Barry was right about one thing: There was still strength in numbers. “You sure you can keep up?” she asked as they rushed forward. To her surprise, even with Barry’s weight, it was easier to run than she thought.

“Absolutely,” Barry said. “I’m right behind you.”

Viv nodded to herself. He’d obviously done this before. But just as she turned away from Barry and focused back on the room, she felt his grip tighten around her elbow. At first, it was just an annoyance, but then…

“Barry, that hurts.”

His grip got tighter. She tried to pull her arm free, but he didn’t let go.

“Barry, did you hear what I—?”

She turned to face him, but he was already in midswing. Just as Viv spun toward him, Barry backhanded her across the face. The punch was wild, catching her just above the mouth. Her top lip split open, and as she fell off balance to the floor, she could taste the thick sourness of her own blood.

She put her palms out to stop her fall, but it didn’t help. Crash-landing on her knees, Viv scurried on all fours to get away.

“What, now you’re suddenly quiet?” Barry asked. He was right behind her.

“Harris… Harris…” she tried to scream. But before she could get the words out, Barry wrapped his arm around her neck and pulled as tight as he could. Viv coughed uncontrollably, unable to breathe.

“I’m sorry—did you say something?” Barry asked. “Sometimes I don’t hear so good.”

77

JANOS’S BLACK BOX comes lunging at my chest. My eyes are focused on the two fangs on the end of it. They’re going straight for my heart—the same place I saw him stab Lowell. Twisting, I try my best to slide out of the way. Janos is ruthlessly fast. I like to think I’m faster. I’m wrong. The needles miss my chest, but they still punch through my sleeve, sinking deep into my biceps.

Pins and needles come first, shooting down my arm and rippling across my fingertips. Within seconds, the jolt begins to burn. A rancid stench that reminds me of burnt plastic fills the air. My own flesh and muscle burning.

“Rrruhh!” I shout, thrashing violently and shoving Janos in the shoulder with my free arm. He’s so focused on protecting the black box, he almost doesn’t notice as I snatch the golf club from his other hand. Enraged, he raises the box for another pass. I swing wildly, hoping to keep him back. To my surprise, the tip of the club catches the edge of the box. It’s not a direct hit, but it’s enough for Janos to lose his grip. The box whips through the air, eventually crashing on the ground and cracking open.

Wires, needles, and double-A batteries scatter across the floor as they roll under a nearby air-handler. I glance back at Janos. His unforgiving eyes tear me apart and are darker than I’ve ever seen them before. Moving toward me, he doesn’t say a word. He’s had enough.

I once again raise the golf club like a bat. Last time, I surprised him. The problem is, Janos doesn’t get surprised twice. I swing the club at his head—he sidesteps it and hammers the knuckle of his middle finger into the bone on the inside of my wrist. A jolt of pain seizes my hand, and my fist involuntarily springs open, dropping the club. I try to make a fist, but I can barely move my fingers. Janos is having no such problem.

Jabbing at me like a precision boxer, he drills the tip of his knuckle straight into the dimple on my upper lip. The hot burst of pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt, and my eyes flood with water. I can barely see. Still, I’m not here to be his piñata.

Barely able to close my hand, I lash out with a sharp punch. Janos leans left and grabs my wrist as it passes his chin. Taking full advantage of my momentum, he pulls me toward him, and in one quick movement, lifts my arm up and digs two fingers deep into my armpit. There’s a bee sting of pain, but before it even registers, my whole arm goes limp. Still not letting up, Janos holds tight to my wrist. He shoves it even further to his left, then uses his free hand to ram my elbow to the right. There’s an audible snap. My elbow hyperextends. As my muscles continue to tear, it’s clear that whenever the feeling comes back, my arm isn’t gonna work the same way again. He’s picking me apart piece by piece—systematically short-circuiting every part of my body.

Kneeling slightly, he lets out a throaty grunt and spears me with another jab that hits me right between my groin and belly button. The entire bottom half of my body convulses backward, sending me stumbling toward his corner of the room. As the back of my calves collide with a two-foot-tall section of vents, momentum again gets the best of me. Tumbling backward, I trip over the vents and crash flat on my ass behind an enormous air-conditioning unit that’s easily the size of a garbage truck. On the side of the machine, a spinning black rubber conveyor belt chugs to life—churning fast, then suddenly slowing down, its short cycle complete. But as Janos thunders toward me, leaping over the vents and landing with a booming thump, his eyes aren’t on the conveyer belt… or even on me. Whatever he’s looking at is directly over my shoulder. Still on the floor, I spin around and follow his gaze.

Less than twenty feet away, a curving, corroded brick wall marks the edge of the air tunnel—but the focus of Janos’s attention is what’s right below it: a dark open hole that’s wider than an elevator shaft, and from the looks of it, just as deep. I’ve heard about these but never seen one for myself. One of the subterranean tunnels that runs up from under the building. Here’s where the fresh air comes in from—underground, below the entire Capitol… and feeding from one of the few fresh air-intake areas. Some people say the holes run down hundreds of feet. From the yawning echo that whistles past me with a burst of fresh air, that doesn’t sound too far off.

Next to the hole, a rectangular metal grate is propped upright, leaning against the wall. Usually, the grate serves as a protective cover, but right now, the only thing on top of the hole is a thin strip of yellow and black police tape with the word Caution on it. Whatever they’re doing down there, it’s clearly under construction. Of course, the Capitol takes its usual safety precautions: two yellow plastic Caution—Wet Floor signs are balanced right on the edge. The signs couldn’t keep out a sneeze—which is what Janos is counting on as he leans down and grips me by the collar of my shirt.

Lifting me to my feet, he shoves me backward toward the hole. My legs feel like they’re filled with oatmeal. I can barely stand. “D-Don’t do this…” I beg, fighting for my footing.

As always, he’s stone silent. I try my best to stay on my feet. He again slams me in the chest. The impact feels like a sonic boom. I fight to hold on to his shirt, but I can’t get a grip… Stumbling backward, I fly directly toward the hole.

78

WITH HIS ARM LOCKED tight around Viv’s neck, Barry clenched his teeth and leaned back, squeezing as hard as he could. As Viv fought for air, Barry could barely contain her. From the span of her shoulders, she was bigger than he’d remembered. Stronger, too. That was the problem with judging by shadows—you never really knew until you got your hands on someone and felt for yourself.

Viv’s body squirmed and thrashed in every direction. Her nails dug into Barry’s forearm. Still gasping for a breath, she coughed a spray of saliva across his exposed wrist. Filthy, he thought. It only made him pull tighter, tugging her close. But just as he did, Viv reached over her shoulder and clawed at his eyes.

Protecting his face, Barry turned his head to the side. That’s all Viv needed. Reaching back, she grabbed a clump of his hair and pulled with everything she had.

“Aaahh…!” Barry roared. “Son of a—!” Leaning forward to stop the pain, he was up on his tiptoes. Viv bent down even further, making him feel every inch of her height. Barry was finally off balance. Throwing her weight backward, she launched herself toward the brick wall behind her. Barry’s back smashed hard into the bricks, but he still didn’t let go. Stumbling out of control, they plowed into the collection of propane tanks, which tumbled like bowling pins. Barry tried to tug Viv back, but as they continued to spin, Viv pushed off even harder. Flying backward toward a nearby boiler, she felt her full weight crash into Barry as the tip of an exposed pipe drilled into his back, grinding into his spine.

Howling in pain, Barry crashed to his knees, unable to hold on any longer. He could hear Viv’s shoes scuff against the concrete. She scrambled deeper into the room. Not far. Just enough to hide.

Rubbing his back, Barry swallowed the pain and looked around the room. There wasn’t much light, making most of the shadows muddy blobs that seemed to float in front of him. In the distance, he heard a series of raspy grunts and nasally groans. Harris and Janos. It wouldn’t take Janos long to finish that, which meant Barry just had to focus on Viv.

“C’mon—you really think I can’t see you?” he called out, following the scratch of her shoes and hoping the bluff would draw her out. Up high, he could make out the edges of the air-handlers, but down toward the floor, the details faded fast.

To his left, there was a scraping of rock against concrete. Viv was moving. Barry turned his head, but nothing flashed by. It was the same muddy blob as before. Had it moved? No… stay focused. Especially now, Barry told himself. Once he got Viv… when they pulled this off… He’d been at the bottom—this was his turn at the top.

A second later, he heard a high-pitched clink behind him. One of the propane tanks. He turned to chase the sound, but the pitch was too high. Like a pebble against metal. She’d thrown a rock.

“Now you’re testing me?” he shouted, spinning back to the machines. He was trying to sound strong, but as he scanned the room—left to right… up and down—the shadows… no… nothing moved. Nothing moved, he insisted.

All around him, machines hummed their flat, droning symphony. On his right, the furnace flame flicked on, belching up a loud whoosh. On his left, a chugging compressor finished its cycle, clicking into oblivion. The wind whistled straight at him. But still no sign of Viv.

Searching for the panting rise and fall of her breathing, Barry isolated each sound—every clink, hiss, sputter, creak, and wheeze. As he stepped further into the room, it definitely got harder to see, but he knew Viv was scared. Off balance. This was when she’d make a mistake.

The problem was, the deeper Barry went, the more the sounds seemed to dance around him. There was a clang on his left… or was that his right? He paused midstep, freezing in place.

A brush of fabric wisped behind him. He spun back toward the door, but the sound stopped just as quick.

“Viv, don’t be stupid…” he warned as his voice cracked.

The room was dead silent.

There was a tiny snap, like a stick when it’s thrown in a campfire.

“Viv…?”

Still no response.

Barry again turned toward the back of the room, scanning the outline of every machine. The blob was unchanged. Nothing moved… nothing moved…

“Viv, are you there…?”

For a moment, Barry felt a familiar tightening at the center of his chest, but he quickly reminded himself there was no reason to panic. Viv wasn’t going anywhere. As long as she had that fear, she wouldn’t take the chance by trying something—

A loud screech tore across the floor. Shoes clunked at full gallop. Behind him… Viv was running for the door.

Barry spun around just in time to hear the mop bucket slam into the wall. There was a sharp grinding of metal against concrete as she picked up one of the empty propane tanks. Barry assumed she was moving it to get to the door, but by the time he caught sight of her, he was surprised that the mass of her shadow wasn’t getting smaller. It was getting larger. She wasn’t running away. She was coming right at him.

“Take a good look at this one, asshole…” Viv shouted, swinging the propane tank with all her strength. She held tight as it collided with the side of Barry’s head. The sound alone was worth the impact—an unnatural pop, like an aluminum bat smacking a cantaloupe. Barry’s head jerked violently to the side, and his body quickly followed.

“Did you see that? That bright enough for you?” Viv shouted as Barry fell to the floor. She’d been picked on since the first day they moved into their house on the edge of the suburb. Finally, there was a benefit to all the fistfights.

He reached for her leg, but his world was already spinning. Viv dropped the propane tank on his chest. With the wind knocked out of him, he could barely move. “You really thought you had a chance?” she screamed as streams of spit flew from her mouth. “You can’t see! What’d you think—you could beat me because I’m a girl?!”

Looking up, Barry saw Viv’s long shadow standing over him. She lifted her foot over his head, ready to stomp down. It was the last thing Barry saw as the world went dark.

79

STUMBLING BACKWARD TOWARD the open hole at the end of the air tunnel, I don’t waste time trying to slow myself down. Using everything that’s left, I spin to the side and try to turn myself around.

By the time I can see the depth of the pit, I’m only a few steps from the rim. But at least I’m moving fast. My foot touches down on the edge of the hole, and I use the speed to take a huge diagonal leap to my right. Inertia carries me most of the way. I just barely clear the corner of the hole—which is good—but now I’m headed straight for a brick wall—which is bad.

Putting my palms out, I slam into the wall at full speed. My arms take most of the impact, but as my full weight hits, my elbow gives way. The pain’s too much. Janos tore it up pretty bad. Collapsing to the floor, I roll over onto my back, prop myself up on my good elbow, and glance over at the open pit. Stray pebbles and flecks of dirt tumble into the mouth of the hole. I listen to see how long it takes till they hit bottom, but before I realize what’s happening, there’s a tight tug on the front of my shirt. I look up just as Janos tries to yank me up.

In full panic and unable to fight, I scootch on my rear end, trying to crab-walk away. His grip’s too tight. Holding me with his left hand, he uses his right to backhand me across the forehead. Again, he knows exactly what he’s aiming for. His knuckle slices open my eyebrow. The blood comes fast, rushing down the side of my face and blinding me even worse than before. He’s trying to take the fight out of me, but as the impact knocks me back on my ass, I lash out with the only thing I’ve got left. Kicking upward and aiming between his legs, I plant the toe of my shoe deep into his testicles.

Janos grits his teeth to hide the grunt, but there’s no mistaking the damage. Bent over, he grabs tight at his crotch. More important, he finally lets go of my shirt. Scrambling backward, all I need are a few seconds. But it’s still not enough. Before I can even get to my feet, Janos picks himself up and plows straight at me. From the look on his face, all I did was make him mad.

Behind me, I bump into the side of the air conditioner, which dead-ends perpendicular to the wall. I’m all out of running space.

“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him.

As always, he’s silent. His eyes tighten, and a thin sneer takes his lips. From here on in, he’s doing this for himself.

Gripping my ear, Janos squeezes hard and twists it back. I can’t help but lift my chin. He tightens his grip, and I’m staring at the ceiling. My neck’s completely exposed. Winding up for the final blow, he…

… snaps his head to the left and staggers off balance. A loud hollow thud echoes through the air. Something clipped him in the back of the head. The amazing part is, at the last second, he managed to roll with it—almost as if he sensed it was coming. Still, he was skunked pretty hard—and as he holds his head and lurches sideways toward the brick wall, I finally see what’s behind him. Gripping the nine iron I dropped earlier, Viv readies the club in perfect batting stance.

“Get the hell away from my friend,” she warns. Janos looks over in disbelief. It doesn’t last long. As he locks on Viv, his forehead furrows and his fists constrict. If he’s in pain, he’s not showing it. Instead, it’s all rage. His eyes are black—two tiny pieces of charcoal in sunken sockets.

Lunging forward like a rabid dog, he flies at Viv. She swings the club with clenched teeth, hoping to put another dent in his head. I tried the same thing earlier. She doesn’t have a chance.

Catching the club in midswing, Janos twists it sharply, then jabs it forward like a pool cue toward her face. The blunt end of the club stabs her right in the throat. Teetering backward, Viv clutches her neck, unable to breathe. From sheer momentum, she manages to rip the golf club from his hands, but she can’t hold on to it, and it drops to the floor. Janos doesn’t need it. As Viv violently coughs, he blocks the path out and moves in for the kill.

“S-Stay back,” she gasps.

Janos grips the front of her shirt, pulls her toward him, and in one blurred movement, swipes his elbow into her face. It catches her in the eyebrow, just like mine—but this time, even as the blood comes, Janos doesn’t let up. He jabs his elbow forward and tags her again. And again. All in the same spot. He’s not just trying to knock her out…

“Don’t touch her…!” I shout, hurtling forward. My arm’s so swollen, I can’t even feel it. My legs are shaking, barely able to hold me up. I don’t care. He’s not taking her, too.

Ignoring the pain, I rush in, slamming him from behind and wrapping my arm around his neck. He swipes his hand back over his own shoulder, trying to take my head off. The only chance we have is two against one. It’s still not enough.

Viv tries to scratch at his cheek, but Janos is ready. Lifting up both feet, he kicks her directly in the face. Viv flies backward, slamming into the metal side of the air conditioner. Her head hits first. She sinks, unconscious. Refusing to let up, Janos whips his head back, smashing me in the nose. The loud pop tells me it’s broken.

Letting go of Janos, I stumble backward, my face a bloody mess.

Janos doesn’t slow down. He marches right at me… a walking tank. I take a swing with my left hand, and he blocks the punch. I try to raise my right, but it sags like a tube sock full of sand. “P-Please…” I beg.

Janos pummels me again in the nose, unleashing a sickening crunch. As I continue to stumble, he glances over my shoulder. Like before, he’s got his eyes on the open hole.

“Don’t… please don’t…!”

He shoves me backward, and I crash to the ground, hoping it’ll at least stop me from moving. Just as I look up, he clutches my shirt and tugs me to my feet. The hole’s right behind me. Unlike before, he’s not giving me any extra running space.

Janos pulls me in for one last shove. My right arm’s dead. My head’s on fire. The only thing my brain processes is the smell of black licorice on his breath.

“You can’t win,” I stutter. “No matter what you do… it’s over.”

Janos stops. His eyes narrow with his smirk. “I agree,” he says.

His hands burst forward, plowing me in the chest. I go reeling toward the hole. Last time, I made the mistake of trying to grab his shirt. This time, I go for the man himself. Stealing his own trick, I reach out, grip Janos’s ear, and hold tight.

“What’re you—?!” Before he can even get out the question, we’re both heading for the hole.

My foot slides down the edge. I still don’t let go. Janos’s head jerks forward. As I slip down, sliding off the edge, Janos grabs my arm, trying to ease his own pain. I continue to hold tight. He crashes down on his chest. It slows our descent, but I’m already moving too fast. The lower half of my body’s already in the hole… and slipping quick. As I slide, bits of gravel bite at my stomach. The concrete does the same to Janos’s chest. He’s following me, headfirst. As we continue to skid, he lets go of my arm with one hand and struggles to backpedal, clawing at the concrete; I kick at the inside walls of the hole, searching for a foothold to stop our fall. Janos shuts his eyes, digging in with everything he has. There’s a huge vein running down the front of his forehead. His face is tomato soup. He’s not letting me take his ear with me. And then, out of nowhere… we stop.

A final cloud of dirt and dust rolls off the edge of the floor, landing on my face. I’m dangling by my left arm, which is the only part of me not in the hole. My armpit’s on the edge, which holds most of my weight, but my hand grips on to Janos’s ear with whatever strength I have left. It’s the only reason he’s holding my wrist. Flat on his chest, and realizing we’ve stopped, he continues to hold tight. If he lets go, I’ll definitely plunge down the hole, but I’ll be taking part—if not all—of him with me.

Thanks to the pressure on his ear, Janos can barely pick his head up. His cheek is pressed against the concrete. But not for long. Twisting slightly, he glances my way—making sure I can’t get out. From inside the hole, my chin and arm sit just above the edge. He’s ready to send me the rest of the way down.

“Janos, don’t…!”

Trying to break my grip, he squeezes my wrist and shifts his position. He’s too off balance. We slide down again, deeper into the hole, then come to another sudden stop. Instead of my armpit, I’m down to my elbow, which now holds part of my weight. Janos is still on his stomach. His cheek’s in the dirt, and the way his body’s turned, one of his shoulders is already over the edge. My eyes barely peek above the rim. I still refuse to let go. I’m gripping his ear so tight, it’s turning purple. If I go down holding on to him, he’ll follow fast.

Below my feet, the tiny plink of fallen rocks echoes from below. No question, it’s a long way to the bottom. Ignoring the risk, Janos digs his fingers into the underside of my wrist. The pain is indescribable. I can’t hold on any longer. My pinkie slides off his earlobe. He pulls his head back, trying to tug himself free. My ring finger slips off next. He’s almost there. The way he’s gripping my wrist, it feels like he’s about to puncture my skin. I rake at the concrete with my free hand, but I’m down too far. There’s no way to get a handhold. The pain’s too much. I have to let…

“Janos, you drop him and you’ll race him to the bottom,” a familiar female voice warns. She puts a foot on his hip, threatening to shove him down.

Janos freezes… and grabs my arm. My weight’s no longer on his ear, but I still hold tight to it. He doesn’t even try to turn his head toward the voice. I don’t blame him. As close as he is to the edge, one wrong move, and we’re both going down.

I look over Janos’s shoulder. Viv’s on her feet, the golf club cocked in the air.

“I’m serious,” Viv says. “You let him go, and I’ll tee your head up and knock you to Nashville.”

80

THAT’S IT… HOLD him tight,” Viv says to Janos as he grips my wrist. She thinks he’s listening, but as he lies there flat on his chest, he’s still just trying to protect his ear and buy some time.

“Viv, watch him carefully!” I call out. My feet continue to dangle over the pitch-black hole, but I can see it in the dark crinkle between his eyebrows. Even with the pain, he’s plotting his final move.

“Exactly… just like that,” Viv says, nine iron arched above her shoulder. “Now pull him up.”

Janos doesn’t move. He’s clutching my wrist and keeping me afloat, but only because I’ve got his ear.

“Did you hear what I said?” Viv asks.

He still doesn’t budge. Even though he’s supporting most of my weight, he can’t support all of it. I keep up the pressure on his ear. His cheek is close to the concrete, and his head is cocked awkwardly toward the hole. His face is an even deeper shade of red than before. Janos is holding me, but the pain’s starting to burn. Closing his eyes, he presses his lips together, then breathes through his nose. The crinkle between his eyebrows fades, but not by much.

“Janos…”

“Drop the club,” Janos barks.

“Pardon?” Viv asks. In her mind, he’s in no position to make demands.

“Drop the golf club,” he repeats. “No fucking around, Vivian. Put it down, or I let Harris go.”

“Don’t listen to him!” I shout.

Viv stares downward, trying to get a better read.

“You’ll hear him scream the whole way down,” Janos says. “Think you can handle that?”

Her mouth opens slightly. For anyone, this is tough. For a seventeen-year-old…

“You think I’m joking?” Janos asks. He digs his fingers back into my wrist.

I scream out in pain.

“Harris…!” Viv shouts.

Janos lets up, once again just holding my wrist. “Harris, you okay?” Viv asks.

“T-Take his head off,” I tell her. “Swing away.”

“Do it and I drop him!” Janos warns.

“He’s gonna drop me anyway,” I add.

“That’s not true,” she says, refusing to believe it. “Just bring him up!” she yells at Janos. “I want Harris up here now!”

In spite of the pain that comes along with it, Janos slowly shakes his head side to side. He’s done negotiating. I don’t blame him. The instant I’m back on level ground, he risks getting kicked into the hole himself. Not only that, but it’s back to two against one.

Dangling by my arm, I feel reality settling in. There’s no way he’s bringing me up—which makes my decision that much easier.

“Viv, listen to me!” I shout. “Hit him now while you have the chance!”

“Not so smart, Vivian,” Janos warns, his voice unflinchingly calm. “You do that and Harris plummets with me.”

“Viv, don’t let him get into your head!”

Too late. She’s studying him, not me.

“I need you to focus! Are you focusing?” I shout. She turns my way, but her stare is vacant. She’s frozen by the choice. “Viv, are you focusing?!”

She finally nods.

“Good… then I need you to comprehend one thing. No matter what you do, I go down in the end. Either Janos drops me on his own, or you smash him, and Janos and I go down together. Do you understand? I go down either way.”

My voice cracks as I say the words. She knows it’s true—and she’s smart enough to catch the consequences: She’s seen how fast Janos moves. If she doesn’t take him out now, he’ll be all over her in an instant.

I feel Janos’s grip tightening around my wrist. He’s ready to dump me and make a jump for Viv.

“Do it now!” I shout.

“C’mon, Vivian—you really ready to kill your friend?” Janos asks.

With the nine iron poised in the air, Viv stares down—her eyes dancing from Janos to me, then back to Janos. She’s only got a few seconds to decide. She pulls the club back. Her hands begin to shake, and the tears roll down her cheeks. She doesn’t want to do it, but the longer she stands there, the more she realizes there’s no other choice.

81

HIT HIM, VIV! Hit him now!” I shout.

Viv’s got the club up in the air. She still doesn’t swing.

“Be smart, Vivian,” Janos adds. “Regret is the worst burden to bear.”

“Harris, you sure?” she asks one last time.

Before I can answer, Janos squeezes my wrist, trying to break my grip. I can’t hold on to his ear any longer.

“D-Do it!” I demand.

With his back to Viv, Janos stays focused on my wrist, digging his fingers in deep. He doesn’t even bother looking back at her. Like all gamblers, he’s playing the odds. If Viv didn’t swing by now, she’s not swinging at all.

“Viv, please…!” I beg.

Her whole body’s shaking as the tears come even faster… She starts to sob, completely overwhelmed—but the golf club’s still up over her head.

“Harris…” she calls out. “I don’t want to—”

“You can do it,” I tell her. “It’s okay.”

“A-Are you…?”

“I swear, Viv—it’s okay… I promise…”

With one last stab, Janos jams his finger into my wrist. My grip pops open—but just as I slip, sliding down into the hole, he doesn’t let me fall. Instead, he grabs my fingers, crushing them together. A wide smile takes his face. He likes being in control… especially when he can use it to his advantage.

I dangle by my arm, watching Viv carefully. “Please… please do it!” I beg.

Viv swallows hard, barely able to speak. “J-Just… God forgive me,” she adds.

Janos stops. He hears something in her voice. Twisting slightly, he turns toward her.

Their eyes lock, and Janos checks again for himself. The rise and fall of her chest… the way she keeps readjusting her grip… even the way she keeps licking her bottom lip. In the end, Janos lets out a small, almost inaudible laugh. He doesn’t think she has it in her.

He’s wrong.

I nod at Viv. She sniffles up a final noseful of tears and mouths the word Bye. Turning back to Janos, she plants her feet.

C’mon, Viv—it’s him or you…

Viv pulls the club back. Janos again laughs to himself. And all around us, the air-handlers continue to chug. It’s a frozen moment. And then… as a drop of sweat leaves her nose… Viv puts all her weight behind the club and swings away. Janos immediately lets go of my hand and turns to pounce on her.

Janos expects me to fall back and drop to my death. But he doesn’t see the tiny foothold I’ve been balancing on for the past few minutes—a manmade divot that’s dug into the interior wall of the hole. The tip of my shoe grips the two-inch ledge. I flex my leg. And before either of them realizes what’s happening, I leap upward just enough to grab Janos by the back of his shirt. Lunging at Viv, he’s totally off balance. That’s his mistake—and the last one he’ll make in our little chess match. In any sport, especially politics, nothing works better than a good distraction. Barely able to hold the edge of the hole with my right hand, I yank him backward with my left. He has no idea what’s happening. I give him a sharp tug toward the hole, duck down, and let gravity do the rest.

“What’re you—?!” He never gets the words out. Tumbling out of control, Janos plummets backward into the mouth of the hole. As he passes, he clutches at my shoulders… my waist… my legs… even the sides of my shoes. He’s moving too fast to get a handhold.

“Nooo…!” he screams, his final word echoing upward as he plunges and disappears in the darkness. I hear him bounce off one of the interior walls… then another. There’s a raw, scraping sound as he ping-pongs back and forth the whole way down. The screaming never stops. Not until the muted thud at the bottom.

A second later, a shrill siren wails from the depth of the hole. I’m not surprised. It’s the air intake system for the entire Capitol. Of course it’s alarmed. Capitol police won’t be far behind.

As the siren continues to howl, I clutch the concrete ledge and struggle to catch my breath. I peer downward, studying the depth of the darkness. Nothing moves. Except for the alarm, it’s a perfectly still black pond. The more I look at it, the more mesmerizing it gets.

“Harris, you okay?” Viv asks, kneeling down toward the edge.

“Get away from the hole!” a deep voice screams. Behind her, three Capitol policemen storm into the room, their guns aimed at both of us.

“Stewie, I need a lockdown on all vents!” the tallest officer barks into his radio.

“It’s not what you—!”

In an eye blink, the other two officers grip my armpits and haul me out of the hole. Tossing me facefirst on the ground, they try to cuff my hands behind my back. “My arm…!” I scream as they bend it back.

“You’re hurting him!” Viv shouts as the tall officer pins her down and puts her own set of cuffs on. “His arm’s broken!”

Both our faces are dripping with blood. They’re not listening to a word.

“Vents are going down,” a man’s voice squawks through the radio. “Anything else?”

“We got a body in the hallway and an unconscious guy up here!” the officer with the radio adds.

“Barry tried to kill me!” Viv yells.

Barry?

“We were attacked!” she says. “Check our IDs—we work here!”

“She’s telling the truth,” I stutter, barely able to pick my head up. My arm feels like it’s snapped in half.

“So where’s the attacker?” the shortest officer asks. “Down there!” Viv shouts, flat on her chest and pointing with her chin. “Check the hole!”

“H-His body…” I add. “You’ll… You’ll find his body…”

The short officer motions to the tall one, who lifts the walkie-talkie to his lips.

“Reggie, you there yet?”

“Almost…” says a deeper voice that comes simultaneously from the radio and the opening of the hole. He’s down at the bottom. “Oh, man…” he finally adds.

“What you got?” the officer with the radio asks.

“There’s some bloodstains down here…”

“I told you!” Viv shouts.

“… all the explosive sniffers are crushed… the trail keeps going… and from the looks of it, he ripped the grating clear off the safety gate…”

Oh, no.

“That’s a forty-foot drop,” the officer with the radio says.

“Oh, he definitely did himself some damage,” Reggie says through the radio. “But I’ll tell you right now… I don’t see a body.”

I lift my chin off the ground. My arm’s the least of my worries.

“Jeff, make sure maintenance locks down those vents, and get Reggie some backup,” the shorter officer says to the one with the radio. “And Reggie…!” he adds, leaning over the edge of the hole and shouting as loud as he can, “… get outta there right now and start following that blood! He’s hurt, with at least a few broken paws. He couldn’t have gotten far.”

82

THEY STILL HAVEN’T FOUND him. They never will.

I’m not surprised. Janos was hired for a reason. Like any great magician, he not only knew how to keep a secret—he also knew the value of a good disappearing act.

It’s been seven hours since we left the depths of the Capitol basement and air tunnels. To double-check that the air system wasn’t compromised, they evacuated the entire building, which hadn’t been done since the anthrax scares a few years back. They moved us, too.

Most people know that if the Capitol is under a full-on terrorist assault, the bigwigs and hotshots get relocated to a top-secret off-site location. If the attack’s on a smaller scale, they go to Fort McNair, in Southwest D.C. But if the attack is minor and containable—like a gas canister thrown in the hallways—they come here, right across the street, to the Library of Congress.

Standing outside the closed doors of the European Reading Room on the second floor, I sink down to sit on the marble floor. My shoulder eventually rests on the leg of one of the enormous glass display cases that line the hallway and are filled with historical artifacts.

“Sir—please don’t sit there,” a nearby FBI agent with silver hair and a pointed nose says.

“What’s it make a difference, huh?” my lawyer, Dan Cohen, threatens as he rubs a hand over his own shaved head. “Don’t be an ass—let the poor guy take a seat.” An old friend from my Georgetown Law days, Dan’s a half-Jewish, half-Italian matzoh-ball-meatball of a guy stuffed into a cheap, poorly tailored suit. After graduation, while most of us went to firms or to the Hill, Dan went back to his old neighborhood in Baltimore, hung out an honest-to-God shingle, and took the cases most lawyers laugh at. Proudly tracing his family tree back to his great, great-uncle, gangster Meyer Lansky, Dan always liked a good fight. But by his own admission, he no longer has any connections in Washington. That’s exactly why I called him. I’ve had enough of this town.

“Harris, we should go,” Dan says. “You’re falling apart, bro.”

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“C’mon… don’t be a jackass. You’ve been through five and a half hours of interrogation—even the agents said you should take a break. Look at you—you can’t even stand.”

“You know what they’re doing in there,” I say, pointing to the closed doors.

“It doesn’t matter…”

“It does matter! To me it does. Now just give me a few more minutes.”

“Harris, we’ve been waiting here two hours already—it’s almost midnight; you need to get your nose set, and a cast for your arm.”

“My arm’s fine,” I say, readjusting the sling the paramedics gave me.

“But if you—”

“Dan, I know you mean well—and I love you for it—but just be humble for once and acknowledge that this is one part of the problem you can’t fix.”

“Humble?” he asks, making a face. “I hate humble. And I hate humble even more on you.”

Glancing down between my knees, I see my reflection in the marble floor. “Yeah, well… sometimes it’s not as bad as you think.”

He says something else, but I’m not listening. Sunk down, I take another look at the closed doors. After everything I’ve been through, this is the one thing I care about right now.

Forty minutes later, I can feel the thump of my heartbeat pumping down the length of my arm. But when the doors to the reading room open, every ounce of pain is gone… and an entirely new one takes its place.

Viv walks out of the room with two bandages over her eyebrow. Her bottom lip is cut and swollen, and she’s holding a baby blue ice pack to her other eye.

I climb to my feet and try to make contact, but a double-breasted suit quickly steps between us.

“Why don’t you leave her alone for a bit,” her lawyer says, putting his palm against my chest. He’s a tall African-American man with a bushy caterpillar mustache. When we were first taken in, I told Viv she could use Dan, but her parents quickly brought in their own attorney. I don’t blame them. Since then, the FBI and the lawyer have made sure Viv and I haven’t seen, heard, or spoken to each other. I don’t blame them for that either. It’s a smart move. Distance your client. I’ve never met this lawyer before, but from the suit alone, I can tell he’ll get the job done. And while I’m not sure how Viv’s family can afford him, considering all the press this’ll get, I don’t think he’s worried. “Did you hear what I said, son? She’s had a long night.”

“I want to talk to her,” I say.

“Why? So you can mess her life up even more than you have already?”

“She’s my friend,” I insist.

“Mr. Thornell, it’s okay,” Viv says, nudging him aside. “I can… I’ll be fine.”

Checking to be sure, Thornell decides to take her cue. He steps about two feet away. Viv gives him another look, and he heads back to the display cases, where Dan and the other FBI agent are. For now, we’ve got the corner of the gilded hallway all to ourselves.

I look over at Viv, but she avoids my gaze, dropping her eyes to the floor. It’s been eight hours since we’ve last spoken. I’ve spent the past three trying to figure out exactly what I wanted to say. I don’t remember a single word.

“How’s your eye?” “How’s your arm?” we both ask simultaneously.

“I’ll live,” we both reply.

It’s enough to get a small smile out of Viv, but she quickly pulls it down. I’m still the one who got her in this mess. Whatever she’s feeling, it’s clearly taking a toll.

“Y’know, you didn’t have to do what you did in there,” she finally says.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not a moron, Harris—they told me what you said…”

“Viv, I never—”

“You want me to quote ’em? That you forced me into this… that when Matthew died, you threatened me into helping you… that you said you’d ‘break my face’ if I didn’t get on the private jet and tell everyone I was your intern. How could you say that?”

“You’re taking it out of context—”

“Harris, they showed me the statement you wrote!”

I turn to the classical murals on the wall, unable to face her. There are four murals, each one with a woman soldier in ancient armor, representing a different stage in a nation’s development: Adventure, Discovery, Conquest, and Civilization. They should have another one labeled Regret. My answer’s a whisper. “I didn’t want you to follow the ship down.”

“What?”

“You know how these things go—who cares if we saved the day? I made bets on legislation… misappropriated a corporate jet… and arguably contributed to the death of my best friend… Even if you were there for the very best reasons—and believe me, you were the only innocent in the whole crowd—they’ll take your head off just because you were standing next to me. Assassination by association.”

“So you just twist the truth and take the fall for everything?”

“Believe me, Viv—after what I sucked you into, I deserve far worse than that.”

“Don’t be such a martyr.”

“Then don’t be so naive,” I shoot back. “The moment they think you were acting on your own is the exact same moment they put you on the catapult and fire you.”

“So?”

“Whatta you mean, So?”

“I mean, So? So what if I lose my job? Big whoop. It’s not like they gave me the scarlet letter. I’m a seventeen-year-old page who lost her internship. I wouldn’t quite consider it the end of my professional career. Besides, there are more important things than a stupid job—like family. And friends.”

Staring me down with one eye, she holds the ice pack to the other.

“I agree,” I tell her. “I just… I just didn’t want them to fire you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“So what happened in there?” I ask.

“They fired me,” she says nonchalantly.

“What? How could they—?”

“Don’t look at me like that. At the end of the day, I still broke the cardinal rule of being a page: I went off campus without authorization and stayed overnight without permission. Worst of all, I lied to my parents and the principal, then flew off to South Dakota.”

“But I told them—”

“It’s the FBI, Harris. They may be hard-asses, but they’re not complete idiots. Sure, maybe you can force me on a plane, or to run an errand or two, but what about getting me to the motel, and to the mine, then down the shaft, and into the lab? Then we gotta catch the return flight back. You’re a lot of things, Harris, but kidnapper’s not on the list. You really thought they’d believe all that crap?”

“When I told it, it was flawless.”

“Flawless, huh? Break my face?”

I can’t help but laugh.

“Exactly,” she says. Viv pauses, finally taking the ice pack off her face. “I still appreciate you trying, though, Harris. You didn’t have to do that.”

“No. I did.”

She stands there, refusing to argue. “Can I ask you one last thing?” she says, motioning to the ground. “When we were down there with Janos… and you were stuck in the hole… were you standing on that little ledge the entire time?”

“Just toward the end… my foot stumbled on it.” She’s silent for a moment. I know what she’s after. “So when you asked me to swing the golf club…?” There we go. She wants to know if I was really willing to sacrifice myself, or if I just did it to distract Janos.

“Does it matter?” I ask.

“I don’t know… maybe.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’d have asked you to swing either way.”

“That’s easy to say now.”

“Sure is, but I didn’t find the foothold till the last second, when he broke my grip.”

She stops as the consequences sink in. It’s no lie. I would’ve done whatever it took to save her. Foothold or not.

“Take it as a compliment,” I add. “You’re worth it, Viv Parker.”

Her cheeks rise uncontrollably. She has no idea what to say.

Up the hallway, a cell phone starts chirping. Viv’s lawyer picks it up and puts it to his ear. Nodding a few times, he closes it and looks our way. “Viv, your parents just checked into their hotel. Time to go.”

“In a sec,” she says. Sticking with me, she adds, “So still no word about Janos?”

I shake my head.

“They’re not gonna find him, are they?”

“Not a chance.”

“Think he’ll come hunting for us?”

“I don’t think so. FBI told me Janos was paid to keep things quiet. Now that the word’s out, his job’s over.”

“And you believe them?”

“Viv, we’ve already told our story. Security cameras got pictures of him entering the Capitol. It’s not like they need us as witnesses or to identify him. They know who he is, and they have everything they need. There’s nothing gained now by putting bullets in our heads.”

“I’ll remember that as I check behind every closed shower curtain for the rest of my life.”

“If it makes you feel better, they said they’d assign security detail to both of us. Besides, we’ve been sitting here for eight hours. If he wanted us dead, it already would’ve happened.”

It’s not much of a guarantee, but in a warped way, it’s the best we’ve got. “So that’s it? We’re done?”

I look back to my lawyer as she asks the question. After a decade on Capitol Hill, the only person standing in my corner is someone who’s paid to be there. “Yeah… we’re done.”

She doesn’t like that tone in my voice. “Look at it this way, Harris—at least we won.”

The FBI agents told me the same thing—we’re lucky to be alive. It’s a nice consolation, but it doesn’t bring back Matthew, or Pasternak, or Lowell. “Winning isn’t everything,” I tell her.

She gives me a long look. She doesn’t have to say a word.

“Ms. Parker—your parents…!” her lawyer calls out. She ignores him. “So where do you go from here?” she asks me.

“Depends what type of deal Dan cuts with the government. Right now, the only thing I’m worried about is Matthew’s funeral. His mom asked me to give one of the eulogies. Me and Congressman Cordell.”

“I wouldn’t sweat it—I’ve seen you speak. I’m sure you’ll do him justice.”

It’s the only thing that anyone’s said in the last eight hours that’s actually made me feel good. “Listen, Viv, I’m sorry again for getting you into—”

“Don’t say it, Harris.”

“But being a page…”

“… paled to what we did these last few days. Just paled. The running around… finding that lab… even the stupid stuff—I took a shower in a private jet!—you think I’d trade all that so I could refill some Senator’s seltzer? Didn’t you hear what they said at page orientation? Life is school. It’s all school. And if anyone wants to give me crap about being fired, well… well, when’s the last time they jumped off a cliff to help a friend who needed it? God didn’t put me here to back down.”

“That’s a good stump speech—you should save it.”

“I plan to.”

“I’m serious what I said before: You’re gonna make a great Senator one day.”

“Senator? You got a problem with a giant, black woman President?”

I laugh out loud at that one.

“I meant what I said, too,” she adds. “I’ll still need a good chief of staff.”

“You got a deal. Even I’ll come back to Washington for that one.”

“Oh, so now you’re leaving us all behind? What’re you gonna do—write a book? Join the law practice with your guy Dan? Or just kick back on a beach somewhere like at the end of all those other thrillers?”

“I don’t know… I was thinking of just heading home for a bit.”

“I love it—small town boy goes home… they give you the victory parade… everyone chows on apple pie…”

“No, not Pennsylvania,” I say. For the better part of a decade, I’ve been convinced that success in the big leagues would somehow bury my past. The only thing it buried was me. “I was actually thinking about staying around here. Dan said there’s a junior high school in Baltimore that could use a good civics teacher.”

“Hold on a second… you’re gonna teach?”

“And that’s so bad?”

She thinks about it a moment. A week ago, like any other page, she would’ve said there were bigger things to do with my life. Now we both know better. Her smile is huge. “Actually, that sounds perfect.”

“Thank you, Viv.”

“Though you know those kids’ll eat you alive.”

I grin. “I hope so.”

“Miss Parker…!” her lawyer bellows for the last time.

“Be right there… Listen, I should run,” she tells me, offering a quick hug. As she wraps her arms around me, I can feel her ice pack on my back. She squeezes so tight, my arm starts to hurt. It doesn’t matter. The hug’s worth every second.

“Knock ’em dead, Viv.”

“Who, my parents?”

“No… the world.”

She pulls away with that same toothy grin she had when we first met.

“Y’know, Harris… when you originally asked me for help… I had such a crush on you.”

“And now?”

“Now… I don’t know,” she teases. “I kinda think I should get a suit that fits.” Walking backward up the hallway, she adds, “Meanwhile, know what the best part of being a teacher is?”

“What?”

“The annual class trip to Washington.”

This time, I’m the one with the toothy grin.

“Y’like that, don’t you, King Midas?” she adds.

Turning around, she puts her back to me and heads for her lawyer. “I’m serious about that chief of staff job, Harold,” she calls out as her voice echoes down the long hallway. “Only eighteen years until I reach the age requirement. I’ll expect you there bright and early.”

“Whatever you say, Madame President. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

83

London

HAVE A NICE EVENING, Mr. Sauls,” the driver said as he opened the back door of the black Jaguar and held an umbrella over his boss’s head.

“You, too, Ethan,” Sauls replied, climbing out of the car and heading to the front door of the exclusive six-story apartment building on central London’s Park Lane. Inside, a doorman behind a burled-walnut welcoming desk waved hello and handed Sauls a short stack of mail. Getting on the elevator, Sauls spent the rest of the ride flipping through the usual assortment of bills and solicitations.

By the time he stepped into his well-appointed apartment, he’d already picked through the junk mail, which he quickly tossed in a ceramic trashcan just beside the antique leather-top secretary where he threw his keys. Heading over to the hall closet, he hung his gray cashmere overcoat on a cherry-wood hanger. Passing through the living room, he flipped a switch, and recessed lights glowed to life above the built-in bookcases that lined the left side of the room.

Eventually making his way to the kitchen and breakfast nook that overlooked Speaker’s Corner in Hyde Park, Sauls went straight for the shiny, black-paneled refrigerator, where he could see his own reflection in the door as he approached. Grabbing a glass from the counter, he pulled the fridge open and poured himself some cranberry juice. As the door slapped shut, he was once again staring at his own reflection in the refrigerator door—but this time, there was someone standing behind him.

“Nice address,” Janos said.

“Nnnnuh!” Sauls blurted, spinning around so fast he almost dropped his glass.

“Don’t scare me like that!” Sauls shouted, clutching his chest and setting the glass on the counter. “God… I thought you were dead!”

“Why would you think that?” Janos asked as he stepped in closer, one hand stuffed into the pocket of his black overcoat, the other clenching the brushed-metal tip of an aluminum cane. He lifted his chin a bit, highlighting the cuts and bruises along his face—especially where the bones were crushed in his cheek. His left eye was cherry bloodshot, a fresh scar was stitched across his chin, and his left femur was shattered into so many pieces, they had to insert a titanium rod into his leg to stabilize the bones and keep the muscles and ligaments from being a flaccid sack of blood and tissue. Three inches down, the only things holding his knee together were the Erector Set pins that ran through his skin and straight into the fragments of bone. The fall was worse than he’d ever let on.

“I’ve been trying to contact you—there’s been no answer for a week,” Sauls said, stepping backward. “Do you even know what’s going on? The FBI seized it all… They took every last thing from the mine.”

“I know. I read the papers,” Janos said, limping forward. “By the way, since when’d you get a private driver?”

“What’re you—? You followed me?” Sauls asked, backing up even further.

“Don’t be paranoid, Sauls. Some things you can spot from your bedroom window—like my car that’s parked in front. Did you see it out there? The iris blue MGB…”

“What do you want, Janos?”

“… model year 1965—first year they changed to the push-button door handles. Hard to shift with the nails in my leg, but really a beautiful car…”

“If it’s money, we paid you just like we said…”

“… unlike that old Spitfire I used to have, this baby’s reliable… dependable…”

“You did get the money, didn’t you?”

“… some might even say trustworthy.”

Backed up against the kitchen counter, Sauls stopped.

One hand still in his pocket, Janos fixed his eyes on his partner. “You lied to me, Marcus.”

“I-I didn’t! I swear!” Sauls insisted.

“That’s another lie.”

“You don’t understand…”

“Answer the question,” Janos warned. “Was it Yemen, or not?”

“It’s not how you think… When we started—”

“When we started, you told me Wendell was a private company with no government ties.”

“Please, Janos—you knew what we were doing down there… We never hid—”

“A private company with no ties, Marcus!”

“It’s the same result either way!”

“No, it’s not! One’s speculation; the other’s suicide! You have any idea how long they’ll hunt us for this? Now who signed the damned check—was it Yemen or not?”

“Janos…”

“Was it Yemen or not?”

“Just please calm down and—”

Janos pulled out a gun from his pocket and shoved it against Sauls’s forehead. He pressed it forward, digging the barrel against his skin. “Was. It. Yemen. Or. Not?”

“P-Please, don’t…” Sauls begged, the tears already welling up in his eyes.

Janos pulled back the hammer on the gun and put his finger on the trigger. He was done asking questions.

“Yemen!” Sauls stuttered, his face scrunched up as he shut his eyes. “It was Yemen… Please don’t kill me…!”

Without a word, Janos lowered the gun, sliding it back in his pocket.

As the gun left his forehead, Sauls opened his eyes. “I’m sorry, Janos… I’m so sorry…” he continued to beg.

“Catch your breath,” Janos demanded, handing Sauls the glass of cranberry juice.

Sauls desperately downed the drink, but it didn’t bring the calm he was searching for. His hands were trembling as he lowered the glass, which clinked against the counter.

Shaking his head, Janos pivoted on his good leg and turned to leave. “Good-bye, Sauls,” he said as he made his way out of the kitchen.

“S-So you’re not gonna kill me?” Sauls asked, forcing a petrified smile.

Janos turned and held him with a midnight stare. “Who said that?”

A long, pregnant pause passed between the two men. Then Sauls started to cough. Slightly at first. Then harder. Within seconds, his throat exploded with a wet, hacking wheeze. It was like a backfire from an old car. Sauls grasped at his neck. It felt like his windpipe had collapsed.

Janos stared at the empty glass of cranberry juice and didn’t say a thing.

Between coughs, Sauls could barely get the words out. “You little motherf—”

Again, Janos just stood there. At this point, a black-box-induced heart attack was too much of a calling card. A temporarily swollen windpipe, however, was just another choking accident in the kitchen.

Clawing at his own throat, then clutching at the counter to stand up, Sauls fell to his knees. The juice glass shattered across the black and white floor. Janos left before the convulsions started.

It was time for a vacation anyway.

Epilogue

STARING THROUGH THE glass partition at D.C.’s Central Detention Facility, I can’t help but listen to the one-way conversations around me. Rosemary’s doing fine… Don’t worry, he’s not gonna use your car… Soon, they said soon, sweetie… Unlike the movies, the visitors’ hall here doesn’t have walled-off partitions on my right and left for extra privacy. This is D.C. Jail on a D.C. budget—no perks allowed. The result is a chorus of chattering voices, each one attempting to keep it low, but pitched loud enough so they can hear themselves over all the noise. Add the unnatural hum of the prisoners’ voices as they seep through the glass, and we’ve got all the makings of a giant, enclosed phone booth. The only good news is, the people in the orange jumpsuits are on the other side of the glass.

“Here he comes,” the guard by the door calls out to me.

As he says the words, every visitor in the room, from the black woman with blond hair to the well-dressed man holding the Bible in his lap, imperceptibly turns their head to the left. This is still Washington, D.C. They all want to know if it’s someone worth looking at. To me, it is.

With both his arms and legs in shackles, Barry shuffles forward, his cane replaced by the guard who holds his biceps and guides him toward the orange plastic seat across from me.

“Who?” Barry asks as I read his lips.

His guard mouths my name.

The moment Barry hears it, he pauses, then quickly covers it up with a perfect grin. It’s a classic lobbying trick—pretend you’re happy to see everyone. Even when you can’t see.

The guard lowers Barry into the seat and hands him the receiver that’s hanging on the glass. Around his wrist, there’s a nametag that looks like a hospital bracelet. There’re no shoelaces in his sneakers. Barry doesn’t seem to be bothered by any of it. Crossing one leg over the other, he tugs on the pant leg of his orange jumpsuit like it’s his regular two-thousand-dollar suit.

“Pick up,” the guard yells through the glass, motioning for me to grab the receiver.

An ocean of acid churns through my stomach as I lift the chipped receiver to my ear. I’ve been waiting two weeks for this call, but it doesn’t mean I’m looking forward to it.

“Hey,” I whisper into the mouthpiece.

“Man, you sound like crap,” Barry sings back, already trying to act like he’s inside my brain. He tilts his head as if he can see my every expression. “Really, though—like someone kicked you in the face.”

“Someone did,” I say, staring straight at him.

“Is that all you’re here for?” he asks. “One last potshot?”

I continue to stay silent.

“I don’t even know how you can complain,” he adds. “You seen a newspaper recently? The way the press is reading it, you’re coming through just fine.”

“That’ll change when the gambling part gets released.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. Sure, you won’t get another government job—and you’ll probably be a pariah for a few years, but that’ll pass.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” I volley back, trying to keep him engaged. Anything to keep him talking.

“What about Senator Stevens?” Barry asks. “He feeling the regret yet for giving you the boot?”

“He didn’t have a choice.”

“Spoken like a true staffer,” Barry says.

“You telling me I’m wrong?”

“You’re definitely wrong. He knew you’d make a deal with the government—that’s all the cover he needed. Instead, you spend over a decade slaving away for the man, and he drop-kicks you when you need him most? Know how bad that looks for him? Mark it right now—that’s gonna cost him reelection.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“As I said, spoken like a true staffer.”

“Ex-staffer,” I shoot back.

“Don’t bitch to me,” Barry says. “I mean, look at it this way… at least you have your shoelaces.” He twirls the ankle that’s up on his knee. He’s trying to play it cool, but back by his waist, he’s picking at his wristband.

“By the way, did you see the piece in today’s Post?” he adds. He smiles wider, but he’s scratching even harder at the wristband. There’s only so long he can wear the brave face. “They actually called me a terrorist.”

I once again stay quiet. He’s definitely taking the public fall. Even though Lowell’s office was able to find Sauls’s name and trace it back to Wendell, it took weeks to prove what really went on. Today, with Sauls dead and Janos missing, they need a neck for the noose—and right now, Barry’s it.

“I heard you hired Richie Rubin. He’s a good lawyer,” I point out.

He smells the small talk a mile away—he used to be in the business of it. Now he’s annoyed. The smile disappears fast.

“What do you want, Harris?”

There we go… a full two minutes to get back to reality. The man’s no dummy. He knows how I feel—I wouldn’t piss down his throat if his lungs were on fire. If I’m sitting here, I need something.

“Let me guess,” Barry says. “You’re dying to know why I did it…”

“I know why you did it,” I shoot back. “When you have no loyalty, and you’re so damn paranoid, you think the world’s against you—”

“The world is against me!” he shouts, leaning toward the glass. “Look where I’m sitting! You’re telling me I’m wrong?!”

I shake my head, refusing to get into it. Whatever perceived slights he thinks he’s the victim of, they’ve clearly whittled away at his reality.

“Don’t judge me, Harris. Not all of us are lucky enough to lead your charmed life.”

“So now it’s my fault?”

“I asked you for help over the years. You never gave it. Not once.”

“So I made you do all this?”

“Just tell me why you’re here. If it’s not me, and it’s not to catch up—”

“Pasternak,” I blurt.

A wide smile creeps up his cheeks. Sitting back in his seat, Barry crosses his arms and tucks the receiver between his chin and shoulder. Like he’s putting the Barry mask back on. He’s no longer fidgeting with his wristband. “It’s gnawing at you, isn’t it?” he asks. “You and I… we always had the competitive friendship. But you and Pasternak…? He was supposed to be your mentor. The one person you turned to when you had an emergency and had to break the glass. Is that what’s got you tossing and turning all night—wondering how your personal radar could be so completely wrong?”

“I just want to know why he did it.”

“Of course you do. Sauls bit his bullet… I’m on my way to biting mine… but Pasternak—that’s the one that’ll frustrate you the rest of your life. You don’t get to punch him, or yell at him, or have the big final confrontation scene with the bittersweet ending. It’s the curse of being an overachiever—you can’t handle a problem that can’t be solved.”

“I don’t need it solved; I just want an answer.”

“Same difference, Harris. The thing is, if you expect me to suddenly scratch your back… well… you know how the cliché goes…”

Forever the lobbyist, Barry makes his point clear without ever saying the actual words. He’s not giving any info unless he gets something in return. God, I hate this town.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Nothing now,” he replies. “Let’s just say you owe me one.”

Even in an orange jumpsuit and behind six inches of glass, Barry still needs to believe he has the upper hand.

“Fine. I owe you one,” I tell him. “Now what about Pasternak?”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t think he knew who was really driving the train. Sure, he took advantage of you with the game, but that was just to get the mining request in the bill.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What’s to understand? It was an unimportant request for a defunct gold mine in South Dakota. He knew Matthew would never say yes to it—not unless he had a good enough reason,” Barry says. “From there, Pasternak just took the game and put in the fix.”

“So Pasternak was one of the dungeon-masters?”

“The what?”

“The dungeon-masters—the guys who pick the bets and collect the cash. Is that how the mine request got in the game? He was one of the guys who ran it?”

“How else would it get there?” Barry asks.

“I don’t know… it just… all those months we were playing… all the people we were betting against—Pasternak was always trying to figure out who else was in on it. When the taxi receipt would come in, he’d go through each one, hoping to read handwritings. He even made a list of people who were working on particular issues… But if he was a dungeon-master…” I cut myself off as the consequences sink in.

Barry cocks his head to the side. His cloudy eye’s staring straight at me; his glass eye’s off to the left. Out of nowhere, he starts to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“What? If he were a dungeon-master, wouldn’t he know all the other players?”

Barry stops laughing, realizing I’m not in on the joke. “You don’t even know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Be honest, Harris—you haven’t figured it out?”

I try my best to act informed. “Of course—I got most of it… Which part are you talking about?”

His foggy eye looks right at me. “There is no game. There never was one.” His eye doesn’t move. “I mean, you know it was all bullshit, right? Smoke and mirrors.”

As his words creep through the receiver and into my ear, my whole body goes numb. The world feels like my personal gravity’s just doubled. Sinking down—almost through—the seat of my orange plastic chair, I weigh a thousand pounds.

“What a punchline, huh?” Barry asks. “I almost fell over when they first told me. Can you imagine—all this time spent looking at coworkers, trying to figure out who else is placing bets, and the only people actually playing the game are you and Matthew?”

“Two minutes,” the guard behind Barry announces.

“It’s brilliant when you think about it,” Barry adds. “Pasternak talks it up; you believe him because you trust him… then they send in a few pages, fill out some taxi receipts, and you guys think you’re in on the biggest secret Capitol Hill has to offer. It’s like those flight simulator rides at Disney World, where they show the movie on-screen and shake your car a bit—you think you’re flying up and down a roller coaster, but you really haven’t moved an inch.”

I force a laugh, my body still frozen.

“Man, just the thought of it,” Barry adds, his voice picking up steam. “Dozens of staffers placing bets on unimportant legislation without anyone knowing? Please, what a dream—like anyone here could even keep their mouth shut for longer than ten seconds,” he teases. “Gotta give Pasternak his credit, though. You thought you were playing a great joke on the system, and the entire time, he’s playing the joke on you.”

“Yeah… no… it’s definitely amazing.”

“It was humming like clockwork, too—until everything with Matthew. Once that happened, Pasternak wanted out. I mean, he may’ve signed up to convince you—that’s part of any lobbyist’s job—but he didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“That’s… That’s not what I heard,” I bluff.

“Then you heard wrong. The only reason he put this together was for the exact same reason anyone does anything in this town: Ever have a small country for a client? Small countries bring in small fortunes, which small businesses are in desperate need of—especially when billings are down thirty-six percent this year alone. After the first year of failing to get the gold mine transferred, Pasternak eventually decided to go with the more inventive backdoor. Say hello to the Game—the most harmless way ever to sneak an earmark into a bill. But then Matthew got curious, and Janos came in, and, well… that’s when the train jackknifed off the tracks…”

The guard looks over at us.

We’re almost out of time, but Barry doesn’t show the slightest sign of slowing down. After all this time in jail, he’s finally having fun.

“You gotta love the name, too—the Zero Game—so melodramatic. But it is true: In any equation, when you multiply by zero, you always wind up with nothing, right?”

I nod, dumbfounded.

“So who told you anyway?” he asks. “FBI, or did you figure it out yourself?”

“No… myself. I… uh… I got it myself.”

“Good for you, Harris. Good man.”

Stuck in my seat, I just sit there, looking at him. It’s like finding out a year of your life has been a staged production number. And I’m the only putz still in costume.

“Time,” the guard says.

Barry keeps talking. “I’m so glad you—”

“I said, Time,” the guard interrupts. He pulls the receiver from Barry’s ear, but I still hear his final thought.

“I knew you’d appreciate it, Harris! I knew it! Even Pasternak would be happy for that—!”

There’s a loud click in my ear as the guard slaps the phone in its cradle. He pinches the back of Barry’s neck and yanks him from his seat. Stumbling across the room, Barry heads back to the steel door.

But as I sit alone at the glass partition, staring through to the other side, there’s no question Barry has it right. Pasternak said it the first day he hired me. It’s the first rule of politics: The only time you get hurt is when you forget it’s all a game.

About the Author

BRAD MELTZER is the author of the #1 New York Times bestseller THE BOOK OF FATE and five other New York Times bestselling thrillers: The Tenth Justice, Dead Even, The First Counsel, The Millionaires, and The Zero Game. He is also the writer of the #1 selling graphic novels Identity Crisis and Justice League of America. A graduate of the University of Michigan and Columbia Law School, Meltzer currently lives in Florida. To learn more interesting things about Brad than could fit in this space, you can visit www.bradmeltzer.com.

Books by Brad Meltzer

The Tenth Justice

Dead Even

The First Counsel

The Millionaires

The Zero Game

The Book of Fate

The Book of Lies

MORE ACTION-PACKED NOVELS BY BRAD MELTZER!

BOOK OF FATE

Washington, D.C., has a two-hundred-year-old secret.

Six minutes from now, one of us would be dead. None of us knew it was coming. So says Wes Holloway, a young presidential aide, about the day he put Ron Boyle, the chief executive’s oldest friend, into the president’s limousine. By the trip’s end, a crazed assassin would permanently disfigure Wes and kill Boyle. Now, eight years later, Boyle has been spotted alive. Trying to figure out what really happened takes Wes back into disturbing secrets buried in Freemason history, a decade-old presidential crossword puzzle, and a two-hundred-year-old code invented by Thomas Jefferson that conceals secrets worth dying for.

BOOK OF LIES

In chapter four of the Bible, Cain kills Abel. It is the world’s most famous murder. But the Bible is silent about one key detail: the weapon Cain used to kill his brother. That weapon is still lost to history.

In 1932, Mitchell Siegel was killed by gunshots. While mourning, his son dreamed of a bulletproof man and created Superman. The gun used in this unsolved murder has never been found. Until now. Today in Fort Lauderdale, a young man named Cal Harper encounters his long-missing father—who has been shot with the same gun that killed Siegel. But soon after their reunion, Cal and his dad are attacked by a killer tattooed with the ancient markings of Cain. What does Cain, history’s greatest villain, have to do with Superman, the world’s greatest hero? And what do two murders, committed thousands of years apart, have in common?

FIRST COUNSEL

John F. Kennedy, Jr., was Lark. Amy Carter was Dynamo. Chelsea Clinton was Energy.

Meet Shadow.

Shadow is the Secret Service code name for First Daughter Nora Hartson. And when White House lawyer Michael Garrick begins dating the irresistible Nora, he’s instantly spellbound, just like everyone else in her world. Then, late one night, the two witness something they were never meant to see. Now, in a world where everyone watches your every move, Michael is suddenly ensnared in someone’s secret agenda. Trusting no one, not even Nora, he finds himself fighting for his innocence and his life—the price for falling in love with the world’s most powerful daughter.

THE ZERO GAME

They play the most lucrative—and dangerous—game.

And they will have to bet their lives on it.

Matthew Mercer and Harris Sandler are playing a game almost no one knows about—not their friends, not their coworkers, and certainly not their powerful bosses, who are some of the most influential senators and congressmen on Capitol Hill. It’s a game that has everything: risk, reward, and the thrill of knowing that—just by being invited to play—you’ve become a true insider. But behind this game is a secret so explosive it will shake Washington to its core. And when one player turns up dead, a dedicated young staffer will find himself relying on a tough, idealistic, seventeen-year-old Senate page to help keep him alive...as he plays the Zero Game to its heart-pounding end.

THE MILLIONAIRES

What would you do to get rich?

What would you steal if you couldn’t get caught?

Charlie and Oliver Caruso are brothers working at an ultra-exclusive private bank when they’re faced with an offer they can’t refuse—three million dollars in an abandoned account no one even knows exists. Almost as soon as they take the cash, a friend is killed and the bank, the Secret Service, and a female P.I. are closing in. Now the Caruso brothers are on the run and about to uncover an explosive secret that will test their trust and forever change their lives.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

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About the Authors

A Conversation with Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

By Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child

Page-Turning Thrill From Preston And Child!

Gideon’s Sword Copyright Page

FREE BOOK: THE ZERO GAME

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About the Author

Books by Brad Meltzer

More Action-Packed Novels by Brad Meltzer

Zero Game Copyright Page

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2004 by Forty-four Steps, Inc.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: May 2007

ISBN: 978-0-7595-0857-6