The Kill Room

CHAPTER 78

“Captain Shales—”

“I’ve left the military. I’m civilian now.”

The hour was early, Friday morning. Nance Laurel and the drone pilot were in an interview room at the detention center. The same floor, as a matter of fact, where she’d been talking to Amelia Sachs when the State Department delivery boy had so successfully derailed the Moreno homicide case.

“All right, Mr. Shales, you’ve been read your rights, correct?” Laurel put a tape recorder on the scabby table in front of them. She wondered how many invectives, lies, excuses and pleas for mercy this battered rectangle of electronics had heard. Too many to count.

He looked at the device without emotion. “Yes.”

She wasn’t sure how to read him, and reading defendants was a very important part of her job. Would they cave, would they stonewall, would they offer a modicum of helpful comment, would they look for the right moment to leap from the chair and throttle her?

All of those had happened on occasion.

“And you understand you can terminate this conversation at any point?”

“Yes.”

And yet he wasn’t terminating and he wasn’t crying for his lawyer. She sensed that part of him, a small part, wanted to tell her everything, wanted to confess — though some very thick walls surrounded that portion of his heart still.

She noted something else: Yes, Shales was a trained killer, no different, in theory, from Jimmy Bonittollo, who’d put a bullet into the head of Frank Carson because Carson had moved into Bonittollo’s liquor distribution territory. But, practically, there did seem to be a difference. Unlike Bonittollo, Shales had a patina of regret in his blue eyes. And not regret because he’d been caught, which was always there, but regret because he understood that Robert Moreno’s death was wrong.

“I want to explain why I’m here.” Laurel spoke calmly.

“I thought…the case was dropped.”

“The case for the death of Robert Moreno is not going forward. We’re bringing a case for the death of Eduardo de la Rua.”

“The reporter.”

“That’s right.”

His head rose and fell slowly. He said nothing.

“You were ordered by Shreve Metzger to kill Robert Moreno as part of a Special Task Order issued by the National Intelligence and Operations Service.”

“I’m choosing not to answer that question.”

I didn’t ask a question, she reflected. Then continued, “Because you intended to kill Moreno and you did kill him, any deaths that resulted — even if you hoped to avoid them — are murder.”

His head turned and it seemed that he took in a pattern of scuff on the wall. It looked like a lightning bolt to Laurel.

And then she realized: Lord, he looks like David! She’d had the same thought when she’d seen Lincoln Rhyme’s aide, Thom. But Shales’s glance just now had been like an electric shock; the airman was much, much closer in appearance and expression.

Schoolmarm…

Said in the heat of the moment.

Still…

David, her only real boyfriend. Ever.

A deep breath and Laurel, steadied, continued, “Are you aware that Robert Moreno was not, in fact, engaged in a plot to attack the American Petroleum building in Miami? And that the chemicals he imported into the Bahamas were for legitimate agricultural and commercial purposes, to aid his Local Empowerment Movement?”

“I’m choosing not to answer that question, either.”

“We’ve datamined your phone calls, determined your whereabouts, have air traffic control information about the drone, photos of the Ground Control Station in the NIOS parking lot—”

“I’m choosing—” his voice caught. “I’m choosing not to respond.” His eyes could not hold hers.

Like David’s.

There, sorry. I didn’t want to say it. You made me…

Instinct told her to back off now. Immediately. Softer voice. “I want to work with you, Mr. Shales. Can I call you Barry?”

“I guess.”

“I’m Nance. I want to work something out. We believe that you were a victim in this too. That you weren’t given all the information about Robert Moreno that you probably should have been when the STO was issued.”

Now a flicker in his eyes.

Which, fuck it all, are just as blue as David’s.

“In fact, it’s possible,” she continued, “that some of the intelligence was intentionally manipulated to make a stronger case for assassinating Moreno. What do you think about that?”

“Intelligence is hard to analyze. It’s a tricky business.”

Ah, no more name, rank and serial number. No doubt: Shales knows that Metzger fudged the intel and it’s been eating at him.

“I’m sure it is. But it presumably is also easy to manipulate. Isn’t that the case?”

“I guess it can be.” Shales’s face was flushed. She believed that veins in his jaw and temple were more prominent than earlier.

Excellent.

Fear was a good tool for persuasion.

Hope was better.

“Let’s see if we can work something out.”

But his shoulders rose slightly and she measured the level of resistance. Still pretty high.

Laurel had played chess with David. This was one of their Sunday-morning things to do, after breakfast and after, well, what often came after breakfast.

She loved those games. He was slightly better than she. That added to the excitement.

Now, she thought. Now’s the time.

“Barry, the stakes are high here. The death of Moreno and the others in the Bahamas are one thing. But the bomb in the coffee shop, the murder of Lydia Foster, that’s—”

“What?”

“The bomb, the murder of the witnesses.” Laurel appeared perplexed.

“Wait. What are you talking about?”

She paused. Then, surveying his face closely, said, “The individual trying to stop our case, the specialist, they’re called, aren’t they? He killed a witness in the Bahamas and one here in New York. He detonated an IED to destroy a computer holding evidence, nearly killed a half dozen people, including an NYPD police detective. You’re not familiar with these?”

“No…”

Bishop to queen’s knight three. Check.

She whispered, “Yes. Oh, yes.”

He looked away whispering, “Minimal steps…”

She didn’t know what that meant.

But Laurel did know that this wasn’t an act. Shales, of the pink flesh and eyes impossibly old and achingly blue, hadn’t known anything of Unsub 516. Not a single thing. Shreve Metzger had thoroughly deceived him.

Work it…

“Well, Barry, we have proof positive that this man was in the Bahamas around the time of your drone strike. We thought he was your partner.”

“No, I work alone. NIOS sometimes has assets on the ground for intel…” His voice faded.

“Who are sent there by Shreve Metzger.”

Not a question.

“Sometimes.”

“So he’s the one who manipulated the evidence in the first place. And has been trying to stop the investigation.”

“You have a name?” Shales asked.

“No, he’s an unknown subject at this point.”

Shales whispered, “Tell me, who’s this Lydia Foster you mentioned?”

“Moreno’s interpreter here in New York. This unsub killed her. He was eliminating witnesses.”

“And the bomb, was that the gas main explosion in the news the other day?”

“Yes, that was the cover story. But it was a bomb. The point was to kill investigators and destroy evidence.”

The pilot looked off.

“And two people died?”

“And they were both tortured first.”

He said nothing. His eyes focused on a dime-sized ding in the table.

“Barry, you called the South Cove Inn two days before the Moreno assignment. You called from your operational phone, registered to Don Bruns.”

If he was surprised at this he gave no reaction.

“I know why you called,” Laurel said softly. “It wasn’t to confirm Moreno’s reservation. The CIA or NIOS’s own assets could verify he was going to be there. You wanted to be sure that he was going to be there alone. That his wife and children wouldn’t be coming with him. You wanted to be sure. So that there was no collateral damage.”

The airman’s lip trembled for an instant. He looked away.

Laurel whispered, “That tells me you had doubts about the assignment from the beginning. You didn’t want it to end up the way it did.” She held his eye, whispered, “Work with us, Barry.”

There’s a moment in chess, David had told her, of alarming clarity. You understand that the strategy you’ve been confidently following is completely wrong, that your opponent has been playing an entirely different game — one of insight and brilliance, outstripping yours. Your loss might not be in the next move or the next ten but defeat is inevitable.

“He’ll see it in your eyes,” David had explained. “Something changes. You know you’ve lost and your eyes tell your opponent you understand that.”

This is what she observed now with Barry Shales.

He’s going to cave, she understood. He’s going to give me Shreve Metzger! The murderer who uses national intelligence to kill whomever the hell he wants to kill.

Checkmate…

His breathing was rapid. “All right. Tell me…Tell me how this could work?”

“What we can do is—”

A pounding on the door.

Laurel jumped.

A man in a close-fitting gray suit stood at the window, looking matter-of-factly from her to Shales and back again.

No, no, no…

Laurel knew him. He was one of the most tenacious — and vicious — defense lawyers in the city. That is, one of the best. But he primarily appeared in federal court in New York at the behest of associated firms based in Washington, DC. Curious that he was here, rather than an attorney who knew his way around the rough-and-tumble state trial court, which in New York was called the Supreme Court.

The guard opened the door.

“Hello, Counselor Laurel,” the lawyer said pleasantly.

She knew him by reputation. How did he know her?

Something wasn’t right here.

“Who—?” Shales began.

“I’m Artie Rothstein. I’ve been retained to defend you.”

“By Shreve?”

“Don’t say anything more, Barry. Were you advised you have the right to an attorney and you don’t need to say anything?”

“I…Yes. But I want to—”

“No, you don’t, Barry. You don’t want to do anything at the moment.”

“But, look, I just found out that Shreve—”

“Barry,” Rothstein said in a low voice. “I’m advising you to be quiet. It’s very important.” He waited a moment then added, “We want to make sure you and your family get the best counsel you can have.”

“My family?”

Hell. That’s his game. Laurel said firmly, “The state has no case against your family, Barry. We have no interest in them at all.”

Rothstein turned to her and his round, creased face offered a perplexed look. “We’ve hardly scratched the surface of the case, Nance.” He looked at Shales. “You never know the direction a prosecution will take. My theory is to provide for every eventuality. And I’ll make sure you and anyone else involved in this prosecution…” His voice grew indignant. “…this misguided prosecution is looked after. Now, Barry?”

The pilot’s jaw quivered. He looked at Nance quickly then lowered his eyes and nodded.

Rothstein said, “This interview is now terminated.”

CHAPTER 79

Morning sunlight filled Rhyme’s town house.

The windows faced east and bands of direct light, filtered through many leaves, fired into the parlor in flickering streams.

The team was gathered here, Cooper, Sellitto, Pulaski. Sachs too. And Nance Laurel, who’d just returned from detention with the disappointing news that Shales had been about to confess and give up Metzger when a lawyer that NIOS or someone in DC had hired arrived and scared him into silence.

But she said, “I can still make the case work. Nothing’s going to stop me this time.”

Rhyme happened to be glancing at his phone when it rang and he was pleased. He answered. “Corporal, how are you?”

Poitier’s melodic voice replied, “Good, Captain. Good. I was happy to get your message this morning. We miss the chaos you brought with you. You must come back. Come back for holiday. And I appreciate your invitation too. I will most certainly come to New York but that will have to be as a holiday as well. I’m afraid I don’t have any evidence for you. There was no luck at the morgue. I don’t have anything to deliver to you in person.”

“No glass shards from de la Rua’s body?”

“I’m afraid not. I spoke to the doctor who conducted the autopsy and there were no splinters left in the bodies of either de la Rua or the guard when they were brought in. Apparently they had been removed by the medical technicians trying to save the men.”

But Rhyme recalled the crime scene pictures. The wounds had been numerous, the blood loss massive. Some shards must have remained. He now eased close to the whiteboards and examined the autopsy pictures of the victims, the crude incisions, the skull cap placed back after the saw work, the Y incision decorating the chest.

Something was wrong.

Rhyme turned to the room and shouted, to no one in particular, “The autopsy report. I want de la Rua’s autopsy report, now!” He couldn’t juggle the phone and work the computer at the same time.

Mel Cooper complied and in a moment the scanned document was on a flat-screen monitor next to Rhyme.

Rhyme was aware of faint breathing on the other end of the line. Then: “Captain Rhyme, is everything all right?”

“I have to go.”

“Is there anything more you need me to do?”

Rhyme’s eyes were on Nance Laurel, who was scanning quizzically, looking from the autopsy report to the photos to Rhyme himself. He said to Poitier, “No, thank you, Corporal. I’ll call you back.” He disconnected and wheeled closer to the screen, studying it more closely. Then he turned his attention to the whiteboards.

“What is it, Rhyme?” Sachs asked.

He sighed. When he spun around he looked to Laurel. “I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

“What do you mean, Linc?” Sellitto asked.

“De la Rua wasn’t collateral damage at all. He was the target.”

Laurel said, “But, still, Lincoln, we know Shales intended to shoot Moreno. It was the glass shards from the bullet Shales fired that killed de la Rua.”

“That’s the point,” Rhyme said softly. “No, it wasn’t.”

CHAPTER 80

“UAV eight nine two to Florida center. Target identified and acquired. Infrared and SAR.”

“Roger, Eight Nine Two…Use of LRR is authorized.”

“Copy. Eight Nine Two.”

And six seconds later Robert Moreno was no more.

Barry Shales was in the holding cell, alone, hands together, sitting hunched forward. The bench was hard, the air stifling and sour-human smelling.

Recalling the Moreno task, thinking particularly of the disembodied voices from Florida Center. People he’d never met.

Just like he’d never actually seen the UAV he’d flown on that mission, never run his hand over its fuselage the way he had his F-16. He never saw any of the UAVs in person.

Remote.

Soldier and weapon.

Soldier and target.

Remote.

Remote.

“There seem to be two, no, three people in the room.”

“Can you positively identify Moreno?”

“It’s…there’s some glare. Okay, that’s better. Yes. I can identify the task. I can see him.”

Shales’s thoughts were in turmoil. Like an aircraft in a spin: The horror of learning that he’d killed three innocent men, then being arrested for the murder of one. And then finding that Shreve Metzger had brought in a specialist to clean up after the operation, killing witnesses, setting that bomb.

Which all brought home to him that fundamentally what he was doing for NIOS was wrong.

Barry Shales had flown combat missions in Iraq. He’d dropped bombs and launched missiles and had some confirmed kills, supporting ground operations. When you were in live combat, even if the odds were in your favor, as with most U.S. military ops, there was still the chance that somebody could bring you down — Stingers, AK-47 fire. Even a single bullet from a Kurdish muzzle loader could do it.

This was combat. That was how war worked.

And it was fair. Because you knew the enemy. They were easy to identify: They were the ones who wanted to fucking kill you right back.

But sitting in a Kill Room, thousands of miles away, padded by layers of intel that might or might not be accurate (or manipulated), it was different. How did you know the supposed enemy really was just that? How could you ever know?

And then you’d go back home, forty minutes away, surrounding yourself with people who might be just as innocent as the ones you’d just killed in a tenth of a second.

Oh, and, honey, get some kids’ Nyquil. Sammy’s got the sniffles. I forgot to pick some up.

Shales closed his eyes, rocked on the bench.

He knew that there was something off about Shreve Metzger — the temper, those moments when control left him, the intel reports that just didn’t seem right, the lectures about the sanctity of America. Hell, when he started a pro-U.S. tirade he sounded an awful lot like the flip side of Robert Moreno.

Only nobody pumped a.420 boattail into the NIOS director.

And to order in a specialist for clean-up, to set IEDs and kill witnesses.

Torture …

Suddenly, sitting in this grim place, wafting of urine and disinfectant, Barry Shales realized he was overwhelmed. Years of hidden guilt were flooding in to drown him, the ghosts of the men and women in the infamous queue, people he’d killed, were swimming toward him now, to drag him under the surface of the inky blood tide. Years of being someone else — Don Bruns, Samuel McCoy, Billy Dodd…Occasionally, at the store or in a movie theater lobby, when Marg called his real name, he hesitated, not sure who she was talking to.

Just give up Metzger, he told himself. There was plenty of information on his Don Bruns phone to put the NIOS head away for a long time — if it turned out he’d played with the evidence and hired a specialist to eliminate witnesses here. He could give Laurel the encryption code and the backup keyfile and the other phones and documents he’d kept.

A memory of the lawyer came back. He didn’t like the man one bit. Rothstein had been retained by a firm in Washington, it seemed. But he wouldn’t say which one. When they’d met after Laurel had left, the attorney had suddenly grown distracted, taking and sending several text messages as he explained to Shales how the case was going to proceed. It seemed that his attitude had changed: as if whatever he said or did, Shales was fucked.

It was odd that the man hadn’t known much about Shreve Metzger, though he was very familiar with NIOS. Rothstein seemed to spend more time in Washington than here. His advice at this point had been simple: Don’t say a word to anybody about anything. They would try to make him cave, Nance Laurel was a duplicitous bitch, you know duplicitous, you know what I mean, Barry. Oh, don’t trust a thing she says.

Shales had explained that Metzger may have done some pretty bad things in trying to cover up the case. “Like, I think he might have killed somebody.”

“That’s not our issue.”

“Well, it is,” Shales said. “It’s exactly our issue.”

The lawyer had received another text. He regarded the screen for a long moment. He said he had to go. He’d be in touch soon.

Rothstein had left.

And Barry Shales was brought down here and deposited, alone in the silent, pungent room.

Moments passed, a thousand heartbeats, an eternity, when he heard the door at the far end of the corridor buzz open. Footsteps approached.

Maybe it was a guard to summon him to another meeting. With whom? Rothstein? Or Nance Laurel, who would offer him a solid plea bargain.

In exchange for giving up Shreve Metzger.

Everything told him he should do it. His brain, his heart, his conscience. And think of the torture of living this way: seeing Marg and the boys through a greasy glass window. He’d never see the kids learn sports, never see them on holiday mornings. And they’d grow up enduring the torment and taunting of having a father in prison.

The hopelessness of the situation bore down on him, surrounded him and strangled. He wanted to scream. But the consequences were his own fault. He’d made the decision to join NIOS, to kill people by pushbutton from half a world away.

But ultimately it came down to this: You didn’t give up your fellow soldiers. Right or wrong. Barry Shales sighed. Metzger was safe, at least from him. Cells like this one would be his home for the next twenty or thirty years.

He was preparing to give Nance Laurel the news she didn’t want to hear when the footsteps outside stopped and the door clanked open.

He gave a brief humorless laugh. The visit was not, it seemed, about him at all. A solid African American guard was delivering another prisoner, who was even larger than the turnkey, a huge man, unclean, hair slicked back. Even from across the room the man’s body odor spread out like ripples on a calm pond.

The man looked Shales over with a narrow gaze and then turned to watch the guard glance at them both, close the cell door and walk off down the hall. The new prisoner hawked and spit on the floor.

The drone pilot rose and moved to the far corner of the cell.

The other prisoner remained where he was, head turned away. Yet the airman had the sense that he was aware of every move of Shales’s hands or feet, every shift on the bench, every breath that he took.

My new home…

CHAPTER 81

“You’re sure?” Laurel asked.

“Yes,” Rhyme said, “Barry Shales is innocent. He and Metzger weren’t responsible for de la Rua’s death.”

Laurel was frowning.

The criminalist said, “I…there was something I didn’t see.”

“Rhyme, what?” Sachs asked.

He was watching Nance Laurel’s face grow still once more; this was how she responded to pain. Her prized case was again dissolving before her eyes.

Nothing’s going to stop me now…

Sellitto said, “Talk to me, Linc. The fuck’s going on?”

Mel Cooper remained silent and curious.

Rhyme explained, “Look at the wounds.” He expanded the autopsy picture, focusing in on the lacerations on the journalist’s face and neck.

He then moved another photo next to it: the crime scene itself. De la Rua lay on his back, blood streaming from the same cuts. He was covered with shards of glass. But none of them was actually sticking into a wound.

“Why wasn’t I thinking?” Rhyme muttered. “Look at the measurements of the lacerations on the autopsy report. Look at them! The wounds’re just a few millimeters wide. A glass shard would be much thicker than that. And how could they all be so uniform? I saw them but I didn’t see them.”

“He was stabbed to death,” Sellitto said, nodding.

“Has to be,” Rhyme said. “A knife blade is one to three millimeters in width, two to three centimeters in depth.”

Sachs: “And the killer tossed some glass onto de la Rua’s body to make it look like he was killed accidentally as collateral damage.”

Sipping his sweet coffee, Sellitto muttered, “Pretty fucking smart. And he killed the guard too, the same way. Because he’d be a witness. But who did it?”

Rhyme said, “Obviously. Five Sixteen. We know he was near suite twelve hundred around the time of the drone strike. And remember that a knife’s his weapon of choice.”

Sachs said, “Well, we also know something else: Five Sixteen’s a specialist. He wasn’t doing this for the fun of it. He’s working for somebody — somebody who wanted the reporter dead.”

Rhyme said, “Right, his boss is the one we want.” His eyes were on the chart once more. “But who the hell is he?”

“Metzger,” Pulaski said.

“Maybe,” Rhyme said slowly.

Laurel said, “Whoever it was knew Moreno was going to be in the Bahamas and that an STO was going to be executed. And when.”

“Rookie, you get on the motive issue. You’re our Argentinian reporter maven. Who wanted him dead?”

Pulaski asked, “Find out what stories he was working on, controversial ones?”

“Well, yes, of course. And feathers he’d ruffled. But I also want to know his personal life — people he knew, investments he’d made, family, vacation places he went to, real estate he owned.”

“You mean everything? Like who he was sleeping with?”

Rhyme muttered, “I’ll let you get away with a preposition at the end of that sentence but I won’t allow the improper pronoun.”

“Sorry. I should’ve said, ‘with who him was sleeping,’” the young officer fired back.

Laughter all around.

“Okay, Ron, I probably deserved that. Yes, everything you can find.”

For an hour, then two, Pulaski, with Sachs helping, dug into the journalist’s personal life and career and downloaded what articles and blog posts of his they could find.

They printed out everything and brought it to the table in front of Rhyme.

The young officer spread the material out and the criminalist began reading through those that were in English. Then he summoned Pulaski. “Ron, I need you to be Berlitz.”

“Who?”

“Translate these headlines.” Gesturing to the Spanish-language articles de la Rua had written.

For another hour they went through the stories, Rhyme asking questions, which Pulaski translated quickly and with precision.

Finally, Rhyme gazed up at the whiteboards.

Of course, of course…

“I think I’ve got it. I need to talk to Mychal Poitier again. And, Thom, bring the van around.”

“The—”

“The van! We’re going for a drive. Sachs, you’re coming too. And you are armed, aren’t you? Oh, and somebody call detention. Have Barry Shales released. The guy’s been through enough.”

CHAPTER 82

The skinny fifty-year-old was a lifer in the Department of Corrections.

He was not, however, a prisoner but a guard and had been all his professional days. He actually liked the job, shepherding people through the Tombs.

The nickname of the venue — technically the Manhattan Detention Complex — suggested a place that was worse than the truth. The word went back to the 1800s and was appropriate for a prison modeled after an Egyptian mausoleum, built on an incompetently filled swamp (adding to the aroma and illness that pervaded the place) and situated in the notorious Five Points district of Manhattan — described as “the most dangerous place on earth” at that time.

In fact, the Tombs nowadays was just another lockup, although a damn big one.

Calling into intercoms, using the code word for the day to open doors, the guard now strode down the hallway to a segregated set of cells reserved for special prisoners.

Like the man he was now going to see. Barry Shales.

Over his twenty-eight years as a guard here he had trained himself to have no opinion about his charges. Child killers and white-collar criminals who’d embezzled from people who probably should be embezzled from…it made no difference to him. His job was to keep order and make sure the system ran smoothly. And also to ease the difficult time these people were going through.

After all, this was not prison but temporary detention, where individuals stayed until bail or transfer to Rikers or, in more than a few cases, freedom forever. Everybody here was presumably innocent. That was how the country worked.

But the man whose cell he was now walking toward was different and the guard did have an opinion about him. It was an absolute tragedy that he’d been incarcerated here.

The guard didn’t know a lot about Barry Shales’s background. But he did know that he was a former air force flier who’d fought in the war in Iraq. And that he worked for the government now, the federal government.

And yet he’d been arrested for murder. But not for killing his wife or his wife’s lover or anything like that. For killing some asshole terrorist.

Arrested, even though he was a soldier, even though he was a hero.

And the guard knew why he was here: because of politics. He’d been arrested because the party that wasn’t in power had to fuck over the one that was, by making an example of this poor guy.

The guard came to the cell and looked through the window.

Funny.

There was another prisoner in the cell, which the guard hadn’t known about. It didn’t make sense for him to be here. There was a second empty cell that the man should have been put into. The new prisoner was sitting off to the side, staring ahead blankly. The gaze made the guard feel uneasy. The eyes told you everything about the people here, much more than the crap they said.

And what was with Shales? He was lying on his side on the bench, back to the door. He wasn’t moving.

The guard punched in the code and with a buzz the door opened.

“Hey, Shales?”

No movement.

The second prisoner continued to stare at the wall. Scary fucker, the guard thought, and he was a man who didn’t use that phrase lightly.

“Shales?” The guard stepped closer.

Suddenly the flier stirred and sat up. He turned slowly. The guard saw that Shales was holding his hands to his eyes. He’d been crying.

No shame in that. Happened here all the time.

Shales wiped his face.

“On your feet, Shales. Got some news I think you’re gonna like.”

CHAPTER 83

At his desk Shreve Metzger heard the siren but thought nothing of it.

This was, after all, Manhattan. You always heard sirens. The same way you heard shouts, horns, the occasional scream, the caw of seagulls. Backfires…Well, staccato reports that were probably backfires.

Just the background tapestry of the city.

He hardly paid any mind, especially now, when he was trying to put out the raging forest fire that the Robert Moreno task order had become.

The chaos swirled around him, the tornado of flame: Barry Shales and the goddamn whistleblower and that bitch of a prosecutor and the people inside and outside the government who had put together the Special Task Order program.

Soon there’d be more tinder adding to the smolder: the press.

Then of course, hovering over it all, was the Wizard.

He wondered what the “budget conference” was deciding right at the moment.

Metzger realized the sirens had stopped.

And they’d stopped right outside his office.

He rose and looked down. At the gated parking lot, where the Ground Control Station sat.

All over with…

It sure was.

One unmarked car punctuated with flashing blue lights, one NYPD squad car, one van — maybe SWAT. The doors were open. The police were nowhere to be seen.

Shreve Metzger knew where they were, though. No doubt of that, of course.

A detail that was confirmed a moment later when the guard from downstairs called him on the security line and asked in an uncertain voice, “Director?” He cleared his throat and continued, “There are some police officers here to see you.”

CHAPTER 84

Lincoln Rhyme could tell that Shreve Metzger, looking the criminalist up and down, was surprised to see him.

Maybe the fact that he was in a wheelchair had jarred him. But the man would have known that. The master of intelligence surely had been compiling files on everyone involved in the Moreno investigation.

Maybe the surprise, ironically, was due to Rhyme’s being in better shape than the NIOS head. Rhyme noted how benign Metzger looked: thin hair, scrawny physique, thick beige-framed glasses with a smudge on each lens. Rhyme would have thought a man who occasionally killed people for a living would be more grisly and sinister. Metzger had taken in Rhyme’s muscular form, thick hair, square face. He’d blinked, a cryptic expression worthy of Nance Laurel.

The man sat down at his desk and turned a gaze — this one unsurprised—toward Sachs and Sellitto. Only they were here; Laurel wasn’t. This was, Rhyme had explained, a police matter, not prosecutorial. And there was a chance, though slight, it could be dangerous.

He looked around. The office was pretty bland. Few decorations, some books that seemed unread — their spines uncracked — sat on untidy shelves. Some file cabinets with very large combination locks and iris scanners. Functional, mismatched furniture. On the ceiling a red light flashed silently, which meant, Rhyme knew, that visitors without security clearances were on the premises and all classified material should be put away or turned facedown.

Which Metzger had dutifully done.

In a soft voice, a controlled voice, the NIOS director said, “You understand I’m not saying anything to you.”

Lon Sellitto — the senior law enforcer here — started to reply but Rhyme interrupted with a wry: “Invoking the Supremacy Clause, are we?”

“I don’t owe you any answers.”

Breaking his own vow of silence.

Suddenly Metzger’s hands began shaking. His eyes narrowed and his breathing seemed to come more quickly. This happened in an instant. The transformation was alarming. Fast and certain as a snake leaping from quiescence to fang a mouse.

“You think you can goddamn come in here…” He had to stop speaking. His jaw clenched too stridently.

He’s had emotional issues. Anger primarily…

“Hey, chill a bit, all right?” Sellitto said. “If we wanted to arrest you, Metzger, you’d be arrested. Listen to the man. Jesus.”

Rhyme recalled, with affection, the days when they had been partnered — Sellitto’s, not his own, artificial verb. Their technique wasn’t good cop/bad cop. But rather smooth cop/rough cop.

Metzger calmed. “Then what…?” He reached into his drawer.

Rhyme noted Sachs stiffen slightly, hand dipping toward her weapon. But the NIOS head withdrew only nail clippers. Then he set them down without clipping.

Sellitto deferred to Rhyme with a nod.

“Now, we have a situation that needs to be…resolved. Your organization issued a Special Task Order.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please.” Rhyme lifted an impatient hand. “An STO against a man who appears to have been innocent. But that’s between you, your conscience and — presumably — some rather difficult congressional hearings. That’s not our business. We’re here because we need to find somebody who’s been killing witnesses involved in the Moreno situation. And—”

“If you’re suggesting that NIOS—”

“Called in a specialist?” Sachs said.

Metzger flickered again. He’d have to be wondering, How did they know that term? How did they know any of this? He sputtered, “I did not and never have ordered anyone to do that.”

Spoken in bureaucratic euphemism.

To do that…

Sellitto barked, “Look at your wrists, Metzger. Look. You in cuffs? I don’t see any cuffs. You see any cuffs?”

Rhyme continued, “We know it was somebody else. And that’s why we’re here. We need you to help us find him.”

“Help you?” Metzger replied with a momentary smile. “And why on earth should I help people who are trying to bring down an important department of the government? A department that does vital work keeping citizens safe from our enemies?”

Rhyme offered a sardonic gaze and even the NIOS director seemed to realize the rhetoric was over the top.

“Why should you help?” Rhyme echoed. “Two reasons leap into my mind. First, so you don’t go down for obstruction of justice. You mounted a campaign to stop the investigation. You tracked down Moreno’s citizenship renunciation, presumably pulling strings at the State Department. It’d be interesting to see if you followed proper channels for that. We’re sure you had Barry Shales, NIOS staff and contractors that you do business with destroy evidence of the STO drone program, you dug up dirt on the investigators. You hacked phones, intercepted emails, borrowed signal information from your friends in Langley and Fort Meade.”

Sachs said in a gritty voice, “You stole personal medical records.”

She and Rhyme had discussed how Captain Bill Myers had gotten from her orthopedist the files about her condition. They concluded that somebody at NIOS had hacked the records and sent them to Sachs’s superiors.

Metzger looked down. A silent confirmation.

“And the second reason to help us? You and NIOS got set up — to murder somebody. And we’re the only ones who can help you nail the perp.”

Rhyme had Metzger’s full attention now.

“What are you saying happened?”

Rhyme replied, “I’ve heard some people suggest that you’re using this job to kill whoever you think is unpatriotic or anti-American. I don’t think so. I think you really believed Moreno was a threat — because somebody wanted you to think that and leaked phony intelligence to you. So you’d issue an STO and take him out. And that would give the real perp a chance to murder the real intended victim.”

Metzger looked off for a moment. “Sure! Moreno gets shot, the others in the room are stunned, scared. The perp slips inside and kills the man he’s really after. De la Rua, the reporter. He was writing an exposé, corruption or something, and somebody wanted him dead.”

“No, no, no,” Rhyme said, though he then conceded, “All right. I thought the same thing at first. But then I realized that was wrong.” This was delivered as a confession. In fact, he was still irritated he’d jumped to the conclusion about the reporter without considering all the facts.

“Then who…?” Metzger lifted his hands, confused.

Amelia Sachs provided the answer. “Simon Flores, Moreno’s bodyguard. He was the target all along.”

CHAPTER 85

De la Rua was a feature writer for a business publication,” Rhyme explained. “We looked over all his recent articles and found out what he was working on. Human-interest stories, business analysis, economics, investment. No investigative reporting, no exposés. Nothing controversial.”

As for the reporter’s personal life, well, Pulaski had found nothing that might motivate a killer to take him out. He wasn’t involved in shady business dealings or criminal activities, had no enemies and hadn’t engaged in any personal moral lapses — there was no controversy about whom he was sleeping with (apparently only his wife of twenty-three years).

“So when I didn’t find a motive,” Rhyme continued, “I had to ask what was curious? I went back to the evidence. And a few minutes later something jumped out. Or, I should say, the absence of something jumped out. The bodyguard’s missing watch, which was stolen after the shooting. It was a Rolex. The fact of the theft was unremarkable. But why would a bodyguard be wearing a five-thousand-dollar watch?”

Metzger looked blank.

“His boss, Robert Moreno, wasn’t rich; he was an activist and journalist. He was probably pretty generous with his workers but paying enough of a salary for any of them to buy a Rolex? I didn’t think so. A half hour ago I had our FBI contact profile the guard. Flores had accounts worth six million dollars in banks around the Caribbean. Every month he got fifty thousand cash from an anonymous numbered account in the Caymans.”

Metzger’s eyes flashed. “The guard was blackmailing someone.”

You didn’t get to be head of a group like NIOS without being sharp but this was a particularly good deduction.

Rhyme nodded, with a smile. “I think that’s right. I remembered that the day of the attack at the South Cove Inn, there was another murder in the Nassau. A lawyer. My Bahamian police contact gave me the lawyer’s client list.”

Metzger said, “The guard was one of the lawyer’s clients, of course. The guard — Flores — left the incriminating information with the attorney for safekeeping. But the man being blackmailed got tired of paying or ran out of money and called up a hit man — this specialist — to kill the guard, kill the lawyer and steal the information, destroy it.”

“Exactly. The lawyer’s office was ransacked and looted after he died.”

Sellitto cast a wry glance at Metzger. “He’s good, Linc. He oughta be a spy.”

The director regarded the detective coolly, then continued, “Any ideas on how to find out who was being blackmailed?”

Sachs asked, “Who sent you the fake intel about Moreno, that he was planning the attack on American Petroleum Drilling and Refining?”

Metzger leaned back, eyes sweeping the ceiling. “I can’t tell you specifically. It’s classified. Only that they were intelligence assets in Latin America — ours and another U.S. security organization. Trusted assets.”

Rhyme suggested, “Could somebody have leaked bad intel to them and they sent it to you?”

The doubtful look faded. “Yes, somebody who knew how the intelligence community worked, somebody with contacts.” Metzger’s jaw trembled alarmingly again. How fast he switched from calm to enraged. It was unsettling. “But how do we find him?”

“I’ve been considering that,” Rhyme said. “And I think the key is the whistleblower, the person who leaked the STO.”

Metzger grimaced. “The traitor.”

“What have you been doing to find him?”

“Searching for him day and night,” the man said ruefully. “But no luck. We’ve cleared everybody here with access to the STO. My personal assistant had the last polygraph appointment. She has…” He hesitated. “…reason to be unhappy with the government. But she passed. There are still a few people in Washington we have to check out. Has to have come from there, we’re thinking. Maybe a military base.”

“Homestead?”

A pause. “I can’t say.”

Rhyme asked, “Who was in charge of the internal investigation?”

“My administrations director, Spencer Boston.” A pause, as he regarded Rhyme’s piercing gaze, then looked down briefly. “He’s not a suspect. How could he be? What does he have to gain? Besides, he passed the test.”

Sachs: “Who is he exactly? What’s his background?”

“Spencer’s former military, decorated, former CIA — mostly active in Central America. They called him the ‘regime change expert.’”

Sellitto looked at Rhyme. “Remember why Robert Moreno turned anti-American? The U.S. invasion of Panama. His best friend was killed.”

Rhyme didn’t respond but, his mind’s eye scanning the evidence charts, asked the NIOS director, “So this Boston would have training in beating polygraphs.”

“I suppose technically. But—“

“Does he drink tea? And use Splenda? Oh, and does he have a cheap blue suit that’s a shade lighter than tasteful?”

Metzger stared. After a moment: “He drinks herbal tea because of his ulcers—”

“Ah, stomach problems.” Rhyme glanced at Sachs. She nodded in return.

“With some kind of sweetener, never sugar.”

“And his suits?”

Metzger sighed. “He shops at Sears. And, yes, for some reason he likes this weird shade of blue. I never understood that.”

CHAPTER 86

“Nice house,” Ron Pulaski said.

“Is.” Sachs was looking around, a little distracted.

“So this is what? Glen Cove?”

“Or Oyster Bay. They kind of run together.”

The North Shore of Long Island was a patchwork of small communities, hillier and more tree-filled than the South. Sachs didn’t know the area well. She’d been here on a case involving a Chinese snakehead — a human trafficker — a few years ago. And before that she remembered a police pursuit along some of the winding roads. The chase hadn’t lasted long; sixteen-year-old Amelia had easily evaded the Nassau County police, after they’d broken up an illegal drag race near Garden City (she had won, beating a Dodge hands down).

“You nervous?” Pulaski asked.

“Yeah. Always before a take-down. Always.”

Amelia Sachs felt if you weren’t on edge at a time like that, something was wrong.

On the other hand, ever since the arrest was blessed by Lon Sellitto and, above him, Captain Myers, Sachs hadn’t once worried her flesh, picked at a nail or — this was odd — felt a throb from her hip or knee.

They were dressed quasi-tactically in body armor and black caps but wore just their sidearms.

They were now approaching Spencer Boston’s residence.

An hour ago Shreve Metzger and Rhyme had come up with a plan for the take-down. Metzger had told his Administrations Director Boston that there were going to be hearings about the Moreno STO screwup. He wanted to use a private residence to meet with the NIOS lawyers; could they use Boston’s house and could he send his family off for the day?

Boston had agreed and headed up here immediately.

As Sachs and Pulaski approached the large Colonial they paused, looking around the trim lawns, surrounding woods, molded shrubbery and gardens lovingly, almost compulsively, tended.

The young officer was breathing even more rapidly now.

You nervous?…

Sachs noted that he was absently rubbing a scar on his forehead. It was the legacy of a blow delivered by a perp on the first case they’d worked together, a few years ago. The head injury had been severe and he’d nearly given up policing altogether because of the incident — which would have devastated him; policing was a core part of his psyche and bound him closely to his twin brother, also a cop. But thanks largely to the encouragement and example of Lincoln Rhyme he’d gone through extensive rehab and decided to remain on the force.

But the injury had been bad and Sachs knew that the post-traumatic stress continued to snipe.

Can I handle it? Will I fold under pressure?

She knew the double-tap answers to those questions were, in staccato order, yes and no. She smiled. “Let’s go bust a bad guy.”

“Deal.”

They made their way quickly to the door, bracketing it, hands near but not touching their weapons.

She nodded.

Pulaski rapped. “NYPD. Open the door!”

Sounds from inside.

“What?” came the voice. “Who is that?”

The young officer persisted. “NYPD! Open the door or we’ll enter.”

Again from inside: “Jesus.”

A moment passed. Plenty long enough for Boston to grab a pistol. Though their calculations were that he would not do so.

The red wooden door opened and the distinguished, gray-haired man peered out through the screen. He absently stroked the most prominent crease in his dry, creased face.

“Let me see your hands, Mr. Boston.”

He lifted them, sighing. “That’s why Shreve called me. There’s no meeting, is there?”

Sachs and Pulaski pushed inside and she closed the door.

The man brushed a hand through his luxuriant hair then remembered he should be keeping them in view. He stepped back, making clear he was no threat.

“Are you alone?” she asked. “Your family?”

“I’m alone.”

Sachs did a fast sweep of the house while Pulaski stayed with the whistleblower.

When she returned Boston said, “What’s this all about?” He tried to be indignant but it wasn’t working. He knew why they were here.

“Leaking the STO to the DA’s Office. We checked flight records. You were on vacation in Maine on the eleventh of May but you flew back to New York in the morning. You went to the Java Hut with your iBook. Uploaded the scan of the kill order to the DA. And flew back that afternoon.” She added details about tracing the email, the tea and Splenda and the blue suit. Then: “Why? Why did you leak it?”

The man sat back on the couch. He slowly reached into his pocket, extracted and clumsily ripped open a pack of antacid tablets. He chewed them.

Reminiscent of her Advil.

Sachs sat across from him: Pulaski walked to the windows and looked out over the manicured lawn.

Boston was frowning. “If I’m going to be prosecuted it’ll be under the Espionage Act. That’s federal. You’re state. Why did you come?”

“There are state law implications,” she answered, intentionally vague. “Now tell me. Why’d you leak the STO kill order? Because you thought it was the moral thing to do, telling the world that your organization was killing U.S. citizens?”

He gave a laugh that was untidy with bitterness. “Do you think anybody really cares about that? It didn’t hurt Obama to take out al-Awlaki? Everybody thinks it’s the right thing to do — everybody except your prosecutor.”

“And?” she asked.

He rested his face in his hands for a moment. “You’re young. Both of you. You wouldn’t understand.”

“Tell me,” Sachs persisted.

Boston looked up with burning eyes. “I’ve been at NIOS from the beginning, from the day it was formed. I was army intelligence, I was CIA. I was on the ground running assets when Shreve Metzger was having keg parties in Cambridge and New Haven. I was key in our resisting the Pink Revolution — the socialists in the nineties and oughts. Hugo Chávez in Venezuela, Lula in Brazil, Néstor Kirchner in Argentina, Vázquez in Uruguay, Evo Morales in Bolivia.” He regarded Sachs coldly. “Do you even know who those people are?”

He didn’t seem to expect an answer. “I orchestrated two regime changes in Central America and one in South. Drinking in shitty bars, bribing journalists, sucking up to mid-level politicos in Caracas and BA. Going to the funerals when my assets got accidentally on purpose killed in a hit-and-run, and nobody could know what a hero they’d been. Begging Washington for money, cutting deals with the boys from London and Madrid and Tokyo…And when it came time for a new director at NIOS, who’d they pick? Shreve Metzger, a fucking kid with a bad temper. It should’ve been me. I’ve earned it! I deserve it!”

“So when you realized Shreve had made the mistake with Moreno you decided to use that to bring him down. You leaked the kill order and the intel. You expected you’d be his replacement.”

He muttered angrily, “I could run the place a hundred times better than he could.”

Pulaski asked, “How’d you beat the polygraph?”

“Oh, that’s tradecraft one-oh-one. See! That’s my point. This business isn’t about pushing buttons and playing computer games.” He sat back. “Oh, hell, just arrest me and have done with it.”

CHAPTER 87

“Scanning,” the voice hissed through an earbud. “No transmissions, no signals.”

The whispering probably wasn’t necessary. The men were in a wooded area well out of earshot of anyone in Spencer Boston’s house.

“Roger that,” Jacob Swann acknowledged, thinking the phrase sounded somewhat ridiculous.

No transmissions, no signals. This was good news. If there had been other officers around to back up Boston’s arrest, the chatter would have shown up on Bartlett’s scanner. Bartlett, a mercenary, was as dull as a slug but he knew his equipment and could find a microwave or radio transmission inside a lead box.

“Any visuals?”

“No, they came alone. The woman detective — Sachs — and the uniform with her.”

Made sense, Swann reflected, only these two and no backup. Boston was a whistleblower and possibly a traitor but he wasn’t dangerous in the resisting-arrest sense. He’d kill you with a Hellfire in Yemen or ruin your political career by planting rumors that you were gay in an ardently Catholic South American country. But he probably didn’t even own a gun; two NYPD cops would be plenty to bring him in.

Swann moved in closer, through the woods to the side of Boston’s house, keeping clear of the windows.

He now checked his Glock, which was mounted with a suppressor, and the extra mags, inverted, in his left cargo pants pocket. On his utility belt, of course, his Kai Shun chef’s knife. He pulled down his black Nomex tactical face mask.

Nearby a commercial tree service was chipping a tree they’d just taken down. The roar and grind were loud. Jacob Swann was grateful for the noise. It would cover the sound of the assault; while he and his team had sound suppressors, it wasn’t inconceivable that one of the cops inside might get off a shot before they died. He transmitted, “Advise.”

“Position,” Bartlett said, and the same message was delivered a moment later by the other member of the team, a broad-shouldered Asian American named Xu, whose only substantive comment since they’d rendezvoused had been to correct Jacob Swann’s pronunciation of his name.

Xu.

“Like Shoe.”

I’d change it, thought Swann.

“Scan, interior,” Swann said to Bartlett.

A moment later: “Have three souls, all ground floor. Right of the front door, six to eight feet, sitting. Right of the front door, four to five feet, sitting. Left of the front door, four to five feet, standing.” Their electronic expert was scanning the house with an infrared sensor and SAR.

Swann asked, “Any visuals, surrounding premises?”

“Negative,” transmitted the Shoe. The houses on either side of Boston’s were out of range of the infrared but they were dark and the garage doors were closed. This was afternoon in suburbia. Children in school, moms and dads at work or shopping.

Another convenient roar of the chipper.

“Move in,” Swann commanded.

The others acknowledged.

Bartlett and Swann were going through the front door. The Shoe, the rear. The approach would be a dynamic entry, shoot on sight. This time Amelia Sachs would have to die, not just join Rhyme in the world of paralysis. If she’d cooperated earlier at least she would have survived.

Leaving his backpack in the bushes, Jacob Swann stepped onto the lawn, crouching. Bartlett was twenty feet away, closer to the house. His mask was down too. A nod.

Fifty feet from the house, then forty.

Scanning the windows. But the attack team was to the side and couldn’t be seen from where Bartlett had assured him the occupants were sitting and standing.

Thirty feet.

Looking around the lawn, the houses.

Nobody.

Good, good.

Twenty-five feet.

He would—

And then the hurricane hit.

A massive downwash of breathtaking air slammed into him.

What, what, what?

The NYPD chopper swept in fast, dropping, cantilevering to a stop over the front yard.

Swann and Bartlett froze as the lithe aircraft spun broadside and two Emergency Service officers trained H&K automatic weapons on the men.

The wood chipper. Oh, hell. The police had ordered it — to obscure the sound of the helicopter.

Goddamn.

A setup. They knew all along we were coming.

CHAPTER 88

“Drop your weapons! Lie facedown. Or we will fire.”

The voice was clattering from a speaker on the helicopter. Or maybe from somewhere on the ground. Hard to tell.

Loud. And no nonsense. The commander meant what he was saying.

Swann noticed that Bartlett complied at once, flinging his own H&K away, lifting his hands and practically falling to the ground. Jacob Swann looked past him and saw that the upstairs window of the house behind Boston’s was open and a sniper was aiming into the backyard. He would have the Shoe covered.

The voice from on high: “You, on your feet. Drop your weapon and lie facedown! Do it now!”

A debate.

Swann looked at the house.

He tossed his gun to the ground and got down on his belly, smelling the piquant scent of grass. It reminded him of Chartreuse, the strident liquor that he used in one of his few desserts — peaches in Chartreuse jelly, part of the tenth, and last, course on Titanic’s first-class menu. As the helicopter lowered he gripped the key fob he’d been holding. He pressed the left button once and then the right for three seconds. And closed his eyes.

The explosive in the backpack, which he’d hidden nearby, detonated with more force than he’d expected. It was a diversionary charge only — for eventualities like this, to draw an enemy’s attention, get them to turn away momentarily. But this charge, right at the edge of the trees, exploded in a massive fireball, pitching the helicopter sideways a foot or two. The craft wasn’t damaged and the pilot controlled it immediately but it had bobbled enough that the gunmen lost their targets.

Jacob Swann was on his feet in an instant, leaping over the prone Bartlett and charging for the house, a smoke grenade in his hand. He flung the compact cylinder through the front window, shattered by the backpack bomb, and leapt through the frame after it.

Inside, Swann slammed into a coffee table, scattering candy bowls, statuettes and framed pictures, and he rolled onto the floor.

The explosion had surprised Boston, Sachs and the other cop and when the smoke grenade bounced into the room they’d scrabbled away for cover, apparently expecting not covering haze but another bang.

Hostages. That was all Swann could think of to buy some time, negotiate his way out. Boston, coughing fiercely, was the first to see him. The man made a halfhearted lunge for his attacker but Jacob Swann drove a fist into the man’s throat and doubled him over.

“Amelia,” came a voice from somewhere on the other side of the spewing grenade. The young cop’s. “Where is he?”

Swann then saw the woman detective, on her side, coughing and squinting as she gazed around her. A Glock was in her hand. Swann went for it — he hadn’t had time to collect his pistol outside. He recalled her limping and the occasional wince, recalled too her references to the health problems he’d learned about when he’d hacked her phone. He now saw a frown of pain cross her beautiful face as she tried to rise and draw a target on him. The delay was enough for him to leap forward, tackling her before she fired.

“Amelia!” came the voice from the distance once more.

As they grappled fiercely — she was stronger than she looked — she shouted, “Shut up, Ron! Don’t say anything more!”

She was protecting him. When Jacob Swann got her gun he’d fire in the direction of the shouts.

Slamming a fist into his ear, with surprising and painful force, she spat the chemical smoke residue from her mouth and pitched hard into him. Swann hit her in the side and tried to grip her throat but she shoved his arm away and delivered another blow to the side of his head. “Get out, Ron. Go for help. You can’t do anything here!”

“I’ll get backup.” Running footsteps, exiting. A door in the back crashed open.

Swann elbowed her, aiming for the belly, but she twisted just in time to avoid a debilitating blow to the solar plexus. Sachs drove a fist into his side, near his kidney, which sent a burst of pain up to his teeth. Still gripping the wrist of her gun hand, he slugged her hard in the face with his left fist. She grunted and winced.

Thinking again of her injury, he slammed a knee into hers, and she gave a gasping cry. The pain seemed to be intense. It loosened her guard for a moment and his strong hand clawed farther toward the gun in her hand. He was almost to it. Another few inches.

He kicked her joint again. This time she barked a high scream and her grip on the gun slackened even more. Jacob Swann lunged for the weapon.

He touched the grip of the Glock — just as she flung her hand backward, releasing her hold. The pistol spiraled away, invisible in the smoke.

Shit…

Tugging at each other’s clothing, trading glancing blows and direct strikes, rolling on the floor, they fought desperately. Smelling sweat, smoke, a hint of perfume. He tried to force Sachs to her feet, which, with her damaged knee, would give him the advantage. But she knew it would be all over then and kept the fight on the ground, grappling and striking.

He heard voices from outside, calling for him to come out. The tactical teams wouldn’t risk an entry with the smoke and their star detective inside, invisible through the smoke. Also, for all they knew he’d had an Uzi or MAC-10 hidden on him and would spray the first dozen officers through the door with automatic fire.

Swann and Sachs, sweating, exhausted, coughing.

He leaned toward her as if to bite; when she backed away fast he reversed direction and broke her grip. He rolled away and crouched, facing her. Sachs was in more pain and more winded. She was kneeling on the ground, cradling the joint. Tears filled her eyes from the ache and from the fumes. Her form was ghostly.

But he had to get the gun. Now. Where was it? Nearby, it had to be. But as he moved forward she glared at him, feral, hands turning from fists to claws and back again. She rose to her feet.

She froze and, wincing, reached for her hip, which like her knee also seemed a source of agony.

Now! She’s in pain, distracted. Now, her throat!

Swann leapt forward and swung his left hand, open, toward the soft pale flesh of her neck.

And then pain like nothing he’d felt in years exploded up the arm he swung, pain from hand to shoulder.

He jerked back fast, staring at the stripes of blood cascading through his fingers, staring at the glint of steel in her hand, staring at her calm eyes.

What…what?

She held a switchblade knife firmly in front of her. He realized she hadn’t been gripping her hip out of pain, but had been fishing for the weapon and clicking it open. She hadn’t stabbed him; he’d done it himself — with his furious blow aimed at her throat he’d driven the flesh of his open hand into the sharp blade.

My little butcher man…

Sachs backed away, crouching in a street-fighter knife-fight pose.

Swann assessed the damage. The blade had cut to bone between his thumb and index finger. It hurt like hell but the wound was essentially superficial. The tendons were intact.

He quickly drew the Kai Shun and went into a stance similar to hers. There was, however, no real contest. He had killed two dozen people with a blade. She was probably a great shot, but this wasn’t her primary weapon. Swann eased forward, his knife edge-up as if he were going to gut a hanging deer carcass.

Feeling comfort in the handle of the Kai Shun, the weight, the dull gleam, the hammered blade.

He started for her fast, aiming low, imagining the slice, belly to breastbone…

But she wasn’t leaping back or turning and fleeing, as he’d anticipated. She stood her ground. Her weapon too — Italian, he believed — was positioned edge-up. Her eyes flicked confidently among the blade, his eyes and various targets on his body.

He stopped, backed up a few feet and regrouped, flicking hot blood from his left hand. Then moving in fast once more, he feinted with a lunge but she anticipated that and easily avoided the Kai Shun, swinging the switchblade fast and nearly taking skin from his cheek. She knew what she was doing, and — more troubling — there wasn’t an iota of uncertainty in her eyes, though evidence of the pain was clear.

Make her work her leg. That’s her weakness.

He lunged again and again, not actually trying to stab or slash but driving her back, forcing her to shift her weight, wear down the joints.

And then she made a mistake.

Sachs stepped back a few yards, turned the knife around, gripping the blade. She prepared to throw it.

“Drop it,” she called, coughing frantically, wiping tears with her other hand. “Get down on the floor.”

Swann eyed her cautiously through the smoke, watching the weapon closely. Throwing knives is a very difficult skill to master and works only when there’s good visibility and you have a properly balanced weapon — and you’ve practiced hundreds of hours. And even striking the target directly usually results in a minor wound. Despite the movies, Jacob Swann doubted that anybody had ever died from being struck by a thrown knife. Blade killing works only by slashing important blood vessels, and even then death takes time.

“Do it now!” she shouted. “On the ground.”

Still, a flying blade can distract and a lucky hit can hurt like hell and possibly take out an eye. So, as she jockeyed to get the distance right, Jacob Swann kept moving side to side and crouching further to make himself a small, evasive target.

“I’m not going to tell you again.”

A pause. No flicker in her eyes.

She flung the switchblade.

He squinted and ducked.

But the throw was wide. The knife hit a china cabinet two feet from Swann and shattered a small pane. A plate inside, on a display rack, fell and broke. He was instantly back in stance, but — another mistake — she didn’t follow through.

He relaxed and turned back to face her, as she stood leaning forward, arms at her sides, breathing hard, coughing.

She was his now. He’d get the Glock, negotiate some kind of escape. They could use the chopper for a ride out, of course.

He whispered, “Okay, what you’re going to do is—”

He felt the muzzle of a pistol pressing against his temple. His eyes shifted to the side.

The young officer, Ron apparently, had returned. No, no…Swann understood. He’d never left at all. He’d been making his way through the smoke, carefully seeking a target.

She’d never been planning to skewer him with the switchblade at all. She was just buying time and talking, to guide the cop here through the smoke. She’d never intended Ron to leave. Her words earlier meant just the opposite and he’d understood completely.

“Now,” the young man said ominously. “Drop it.” Swann knew he was fully prepared to send a bullet into his brain.

He looked for a place where the Kai Shun wouldn’t get dented or chipped. He tossed it carefully onto the couch.

Sachs eased forward, still wincing, and retrieved it. She noted the blade with some appreciation. The young cop cuffed Swann, and Sachs strode forward, gripped the Nomex hood and yanked it off him.

CHAPTER 89

The disabled-accessible van wove through the emergency vehicles and parked at the curb near Spencer Boston’s house. Lincoln Rhyme had been at the staging area a few blocks away. Given his inability to wield a weapon, as he’d learned in the Bahamas, Rhyme thought it best to remain clear of the potential battlefield.

Which, of course, Thom would have insisted on anyway.

Old mother hen.

In a few minutes he was freed from the vehicle and he wheeled his new chair, which he quite liked, up to Amelia Sachs.

Rhyme regarded her with some scrutiny. She was in pain, though trying to cover. But her discomfort was obvious to him.

“Where’s Ron?”

“Walking the grid in the house.”

Rhyme grimaced as he looked at the smoldering trees and boxwood and the smoke trickling out of the expensive Colonial. Fire department fans had largely exhausted the worst of the fumes. “Didn’t anticipate a diversionary charge, Sachs. Sorry.”

He was furious with himself for not considering it. He should have known Unsub 516 would try something like that.

Sachs said only, “Still, you came up with a good plan, Rhyme.”

“Well, had the desired result,” he conceded with some, but not too much, modesty.

The criminalist had never suspected Spencer Boston of anything more than leaking the STO order. True, as Sachs had pointed out, both Boston and Moreno had a Panama connection. But even if Boston had been involved in the invasion, Moreno was just a boy then. They couldn’t have known each other. No, Panama was just a coincidence.

But Rhyme had decided that Metzger’s administrations director would make excellent bait, because whoever was behind the plot — the unsub’s boss — would want to kill the whistleblower too.

This was the help he’d enlisted Shreve Metzger for. Ever since he’d learned of the investigation last weekend, Metzger had been contacting everyone involved in the STO drone project and telling them to stonewall and dump evidence. These encrypted texts, emails and phone calls were sent to people within NIOS but also to private contractors, military personnel and Washington officials. This was how Unsub 516’s boss had known so much about the case. Metzger had been feeding everyone virtually real-time intelligence about what was going on, so passionate was he about keeping the STO program going. The boss, in turn, briefed the unsub.

But who exactly was that person?

At Rhyme’s insistence, Metzger had called these same people an hour ago and told them the whistleblower had been identified as Spencer Boston and they should destroy any evidence linking them to the man.

Rhyme suspected that the mastermind behind the plot to kill Moreno’s guard would order Unsub 516 to show up in Glen Cove to eliminate Boston.

So the administrations director, along with Sachs and Pulaski, waited inside. NYPD and Nassau County tactical forces took up hidden positions nearby, a helicopter from Emergency Service included. The noisy wood chipper, to cover up the sound of the aircraft, had been Ron Pulaski’s idea.

The kid was on a roll.

Rhyme now looked over Unsub 516, sitting shackled and cuffed on the front lawn of Boston’s house, about thirty feet away. His hand was bandaged but the wound didn’t seem to be too serious. The compact man gazed back at the authorities placidly, then turned his full attention to what seemed to be an herb garden nearby.

Rhyme said to Sachs, “Wonder how much work it’ll be to find out who he’s working for. I don’t suppose he’ll be very cooperative in naming the mastermind.”

“He doesn’t need to be,” Sachs said. “I know who he works for.”

“You do?” Rhyme asked.

“Harry Walker. At Walker Defense Systems.”

The criminalist laughed. “How do you know that?”

She nodded at the unsub. “When I went out to the company to look for the airstrip? He’s the one who came to get me in the waiting room and took me to see Walker. By the way, he was really a flirt.”

CHAPTER 90

His name was Jacob Swann, the security director for Walker Defense Systems.

Swann was former military but had been drummed out — if that was what they still called it — for excessive interrogation of suspects in Iraq. Not waterboarding but removing skin from several insurgents. Some other body parts had been removed too. “Expertly and slowly,” the report said.

Further datamining revealed that he lived alone in Brooklyn, bought expensive kitchen items and took himself to fine restaurants frequently. He’d had two emergency room visits in the last year. One was for a gunshot wound, which he claimed was inflicted by an unseen hunter when he was out after some venison. The second was for a bad cut on his finger, which he attributed to a knife slipping off a Vidalia onion when he was preparing a dish.

The first would have been a lie, the second probably true, Rhyme guessed, considering what they now knew was Swann’s hobby.

Combine those ingredients with caviar and vanilla and you have a real expensive dish that’s served at the Patchwork Goose…

A car pulled up near the police tape, an older-model Honda in need of some bodywork.

Nance Laurel, in her white blouse and navy suit, cut the same as her gray one, climbed out. She was rubbing her cheek and Rhyme wondered if she’d just applied more makeup. The assistant district attorney approached and asked if Sachs was all right.

“Fine. Little tussle. But he got the worst of it.” A nod at Swann. “He’s been read his rights. He hasn’t asked for a lawyer but he’s not being cooperative.”

“We’ll see about that,” Laurel said. “Let’s talk to him. I may need your help, Lincoln. We’ll bring him over here.”

“Not necessary.” He glanced down at the Merits wheelchair. “They tell me it’s particularly good on rough terrain. Let’s find out.”

Without a hesitation the chair sped over the lawn straight to the perp.

Nance Laurel and Sachs joined him. The ADA looked down at Swann. “My name is—”

“I know who you are.”

One of her trademarked pauses. “Now, Jacob, we know Harry Walker’s behind this. He had you plant fake intelligence to trick NIOS into assassinating Robert Moreno as a cover so you could kill his guard, Simon Flores, who was blackmailing Walker. You were at the South Cove Inn when it happened, waiting for the drone strike. Just afterward, before the rescue workers got there, you broke into suite twelve hundred and stabbed Flores and Eduardo de la Rua to death. Then you went to Flores’s lawyer’s office in Nassau and tortured and killed him, stole the documents Flores had left for safekeeping — the documents Walker was worried would be made public.

“After my investigation started, Metzger gave Walker updates and names — to destroy evidence and be on guard against the police running the case. But Walker told you to do more than that — to eliminate witnesses and the investigators. You killed Annette Bodel, Lydia Foster and Moreno’s driver, Vlad Nikolov—” Laurel glanced toward Sachs and Rhyme. “Officers in Queens found his body in the basement of his house.”

Swann merely looked down at his bandaged hand and said nothing.

The prosecutor continued, “You also arranged with some associates in Nassau to kill Captain Rhyme and others working with him down there… And then there was this.” She offered a nod around the marred suburban landscape, resembling a combat zone.

The depth of this information, laid out so unemotionally by Nance Laurel, must have taken Swann by surprise but he hesitated only a moment then said in a calm voice, “First of all, as for this incident…” He nodded at Boston’s house. “Regarding the weapons, all three of us have Class Three federal firearms licenses and concealed-carry permits valid in the state of New York. Now, in my job at Walker Defense, I’m involved in national security. We came here on a tip that Spencer Boston represented a dangerous security leak. My associates and I were simply going to check that out and discuss the matter with him. Next thing I know, tactical troops were threatening us. They claimed they were NYPD but how was I supposed to know? Not a single person offered me their identification.”

Amelia Sachs actually laughed at this.

Laurel asked, “Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Ah, the important question, Ms. Laurel, is will a jury believe it? And I suspect they might. And as for those other crimes you mentioned? All speculation. I guarantee you don’t have anything on me.”

The prosecutor looked at Rhyme, who wheeled up closer. He realized that Swann was intensely studying his insensate legs and left arm. He was truly curious but Rhyme had no idea what he was thinking or what the purpose for the examination was.

The criminalist, in turn, looked the suspect up and down and smiled as he often did at the arrogance of perps. “Don’t have anything, don’t have anything.” Musing thoughtfully. “Oh, I think maybe we do, Jacob. Now, I don’t care much for motives, but we have a couple of good ones here, I have to admit. You killed Lydia Foster — and wanted to kill Moreno’s driver — because you thought the subject would come up of why Simon Flores wasn’t accompanying Moreno on the trip. And that would make us wonder why he wasn’t here too. And your motive for killing Annette Bodel was that she could place you at the scene in the Bahamas when the shooting happened.”

Swann gave a blink but recovered quickly and simply cocked his head in curiosity.

Rhyme paid him no mind and addressed the sky. “Now, for more objective evidence: We have a short brown hair from the Lydia Foster crime scene.” He glanced at Swann’s scalp. “We can do a mandatory DNA swab and I’m sure it will match. Oh, and we’re still working on tracing that silver necklace you bought Annette Bodel — to attract the barracuda to hide the fact you’d tortured and killed her. I’m sure somebody will have seen you buy it.”

This opened Swann’s mouth slightly. A tongue touched the corner of his lips.

“And we found some allspice and hot sauce on the clothing of Eduardo de la Rua. I thought that was from his breakfast the morning of May ninth. But knowing your affinity for the culinary arts, I wonder if you’d been cooking the night before you killed him. Maybe you made dinner for Annette. It’ll be interesting to examine your suitcase and clothing and see if there’s associated trace.

“And speaking of food: We found some trace in two locations in New York: combine them and apparently you end up with a very interesting dish involving artichoke, licorice, fish roe and vanilla. Did you happen to see the recent recipe in the New York Times? I understand the Patchwork Goose is quite the restaurant. And you should know that I have an expert witness to testify about the food.”

Rhyme knew Thom would love being thus described.

Swann was completely silent now. In fact, he seemed numb.

“Now, we’re looking into whether you had access to a particular type of military IED, which was used at the Java Hut. And saltwater-laced sand was found both there and at Annette Bodel’s apartment in Nassau. We’ll subpoena your clothes and shoes and see if you happen to have any grains left on them. Your washing machine too. Hm, do we have anything else?”

Sachs said, “The two-stroke oil trace.”

“Ah, yes, thank you, Sachs. You left some two-stroke oil trace at one of the scenes and I’m sure we’ll find the same fuel mixture in your office at Walker Defense or at Homestead Air Reserve Base, if you were there before or after the attack on May 9. Thanks particularly for that find, by the way — the oil; that’s how we figured out that NIOS was using drones, not flesh-and-blood snipers. Excuse me, UAVs.

“But, I digress. Now, that interesting blade of yours…” Rhyme had seen the evidence bag containing the Japanese chef’s knife. “We’ll match its tool mark profile with wounds on the bodies of Lydia Foster, de la Rua, Flores and the lawyer in the Bahamas. Oh, and the limo driver too.

“More? Okay. We’re datamining your credit card, ATM withdrawals and mobile phone usage.” He took a breath. “And we’re subpoenaing the Walker Defense Technical Services and Support operation to see whom they’ve been datamining and spying on. Now, that pretty much wraps up my formal presentation. Prosecutor Laurel?”

A trademark pause, which by now Rhyme found rather charming. She then said in an at-attention tone, “Do you see where we’re going with this, Jacob? We need you to testify against Harry Walker. If you do that we’ll work something out.”

“What does that mean, ‘work something out’? How many years?”

“Obviously I can’t say for certain but probably we’re looking at thirty.”

“Not much in it for me, then, is there?” he asked, gazing back at her coolly.

She replied, “The alternative is I don’t fight extradition to the Bahamas. And you spend the rest of your life in one of their prisons.”

That seemed to bring Swann up short. Still he remained silent.

This wasn’t, technically, Rhyme’s concern. But he felt he should contribute. “And who knows, Jacob?” Rhyme said, an amused tone in his voice. “Maybe ADA Laurel here might see if you could get a spot in the kitchen in whatever facility you’re sent to.” He shrugged. “Just a thought.”

Laurel nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

Swann looked over the smoke-damaged house of Spencer Boston. Then turned back. “When do you want to talk?”

Nance’s response was to dig into her pocketbook and extract a battered tape recorder.

CHAPTER 91

“Business isn’t what it used to be, the arms business, I mean,” Swann was telling them. “Walker Defense was having problems, bad problems, with the wars winding down.”

Sachs said to Rhyme, “That’s right. A lot of the factory facilities were shuttered when I was there.”

“Yes, ma’am. Lost sixty percent of our revenue and the company was in the red. Mr. Walker was used to a nice lifestyle. A couple of his ex-wives were too. Along with his present one and she was thirty years younger than him. Without a good income she might not’ve been too inclined to hang around.”

“Was it his Aston Martin in the lot?” Sachs asked.

“Yes. One of his. He’s got three.”

“Oh. Well. Three.”

“But it was more than that. He believed — I believed too — that the company was doing good work, good for the country. The rifle system for the drone, for instance. And that was just one of them. It was important work. We needed to keep the company afloat.”

Swann continued, “Orders weren’t coming from the U.S. like they used to so Mr. Walker ramped up business in other countries. But there’s a huge surplus of arms out there. Not much demand. So he created some.”

Nance Laurel asked, “By bribing officers and defense ministers in the armed services in Latin America, right?”

“Exactly. Africa and the Balkans too. Middle East some but you’ve got to be careful there. Don’t want to be found out selling weapons to any insurgents who take out U.S. soldiers. Okay, Simon Flores, Moreno’s guard, was with the Brazilian army. Mr. Walker’s Latin American operation is based in São Paulo and so Flores was real aware of the bribes. When he left the army he took plenty of proof with him — enough to put Mr. Walker away for the rest of his life. Flores started blackmailing him.

“Flores had met Moreno and liked the work he was doing. Moreno hired him to be his guard. I guess Flores figured it’d be a good cover. He could travel around with Moreno throughout the Caribbean, buy property, invest the cash, hit the offshore banks — and still get to play soldier as a bodyguard.” A glance toward Rhyme. “And, yeah, you got it right. Flores didn’t think it was smart to come to our home turf on May first. And Mr. Walker was worried that the subject would come up.”

Sachs asked, “And you faked the intel about Moreno?”

“No, it wasn’t faked. But selective, I guess you could say. I emphasized the fertilizer bomb materials. Then NIOS issued the STO, effective May ninth, and I took a trip down to Nassau to wait for the fireworks. Afterward, we were sure the whole thing would go away but then we heard about your case against Metzger and Barry Shales. Mr. Walker had me do what I could to stop it from going forward. Oh, Metzger didn’t know what I was up to, by the way. Yeah, he wanted Walker and all his other suppliers to lose evidence and erase emails but that was it.”

“Okay, that’s enough to get us started,” Laurel said. She nodded to Amelia Sachs. “He can go to detention now.”

Sachs had a question first, though. “At Walker, why did you come to get me in the lobby? It was a risk. I might’ve caught a glimpse of you when you were tailing me.”

“A risk, sure.” Swann gave a shrug. “But you were good. You derailed me a couple of times. I wanted to see you up close. See if you had any liabilities.” He nodded at her knee. “Which I found out. If you hadn’t been one step ahead of me in Boston’s house, it might’ve turned out different.”

Sachs rounded up a couple of uniforms from the NYPD and they helped Swann to his feet and started to direct him to a blue-and-white transport. He paused and turned back. “Oh, one thing. In my house? The basement?”

Sachs nodded.

“You’ll find somebody there. A woman. Her name’s Carol Fiori. A British tourist.”

“What?” Sachs blinked. Laurel took a moment to process this.

“It’s a long story but, anyway, she’s in the basement.”

“You…she’s in your basement. Dead? Injured?”

“No, no, no. She’s fine. Probably bored. She’s handcuffed down there.”

“What did you do, rape her?” Laurel asked.

Swann seemed insulted. “Of course not. I made dinner for her is what I did. Asparagus, potatoes Anna and my own version of Veronique — grass-fed veal with grapes and beurre blanc. I have the meat flown in from a special farm in Montana. Best in the world. She didn’t eat any. I didn’t think she would. But I gave it a shot.” He shrugged.

“What were you going to do with her?” Sachs asked.

“I didn’t really know,” Swann said. “I didn’t know.”

CHAPTER 92

The site was secure, Shreve Metzger had been told, and he piloted his government car from the staging area a few blocks away through the trim streets to the home of his administrations director.

His friend.

His Judas.

Metzger was astonished to see that the man’s pleasant suburban house, where he’d had dinner two weeks ago, looked like some of the battlefield locales he remembered from Iraq, except for the lush grass and the Lexuses and Mercs parked on the street nearby. Trees smoldered and smoke dribbled skyward from Boston’s windows. The smell would be in the walls for years, even after painting. And forget the furniture and clothing.

Metzger’s own brand of Smoke filled him. He thought again for the hundredth time that day: How could you have done this, Spencer?

As with anybody who had affronted him — from rude coffee vendor to someone like this traitor — Metzger felt a mousetrap snap, a nearly overwhelming urge to grab them, shatter their bones, scream, draw blood. Utterly destroy.

But then, thinking that Boston’s life as he’d lived it would be over with, Metzger decided that was punishment enough. The Smoke within him faded.

A good sign, Dr. Fischer?

Probably it was. But would the serenity last? Maybe, maybe not. Why did all the important battles have to be lifetime battles? Weight, anger, love…

He flashed an ID at a couple of local uniforms and ducked under the tape, walking toward Lincoln Rhyme and Amelia Sachs.

He greeted them and then learned his administrations director’s motive for leaking the STO. The sin arose not from conscience or ideology or money. But simply because he was passed over for the job of head of NIOS.

Metzger was stunned. For one thing, Boston was totally wrong for the senior job. For all his scrawny physique and bland eyes, Metzger was a killer. Whatever makes your own personal Smoke go away defines you.

Spencer Boston, on the other hand, was a diligent and meticulous national security professional, an organizer, a player, a dealer, a man who got things done in the hazy streets of Managua or Rio. Who didn’t own a gun and wouldn’t know how to use one — or have the guts to do so.

What on earth would he do with an organization like NIOS, whose sole purpose was to end lives?

But ambition doesn’t grow from logic, Metzger knew.

He now nodded a tepid farewell to Rhyme and Sachs. He’d hoped to confront Spencer Boston but Sachs had explained that the administrations director had gone to be with his wife and children in Larchmont. He hadn’t been officially arrested yet. There was still considerable debate as to what crime, if any, he’d committed. The charges would be federal, not state, however, so the NYPD’s involvement was marginal.

Nothing more to do here.

Spencer, how could you…

He turned abruptly toward his car.

And nearly walked smack into stocky Assistant District Attorney Nance Laurel.

They both froze, inches away from each other.

He was silent. She said, “You were lucky this time.”

“And what exactly does that mean?”

“Moreno’s renunciation of his citizenship. That’s why the case got dropped. The only reason.”

Shreve Metzger wondered if she held everyone’s eyes so steadily. Probably. Everyone except lovers’, he suspected. In this they were the same. And he wondered where on earth that thought had come from.

She continued, “How did you manage to pull it off?”

“What?”

“Did Moreno really renounce? Were those documents from the embassy in Costa Rica legitimate?”

“Are you accusing me of obstruction?”

“You’re guilty of obstruction,” she said. “That’s a given. We’re choosing not to pursue those charges. I just want to know specifically about the renunciation documents.”

Meaning calls had been made from Washington to Albany dictating that obstruction charges not be brought. Metzger wondered if this was a farewell present from the Wizard. Probably not. A case like that would look bad for everybody.

“I don’t really have anything more to say on that topic, Counselor. Take it up with State.”

“Who’s al-Barani Rashid?”

So she had at least two entries in the STO queue — Moreno’s and Rashid’s.

“I can’t discuss NIOS operations with you. You don’t have a clearance.”

“Is he dead?”

Metzger said nothing. He kept his hazel eyes locked easily on hers.

Laurel pressed ahead, “You’re positive Rashid is guilty?”

The Smoke boiled and cracked his skin like an eggshell. He whispered harshly, “Walker used me, he used NIOS.”

“You let yourself be used. You heard what you wanted to about Moreno and stopped asking questions.”

Smoke, plumes and plumes of Smoke now. “What’s wrong, Counselor? Upset that all you ended up with was a run-of-the-mill homicide? A CEO at a defense contractor orders a couple of hits? Boring. Won’t make CNN the way a federal security director’s going to jail would.”

She didn’t rise to the argument. “And Rashid? No mistakes there, you’re convinced?”

Metzger couldn’t help but recall that Barry Shales — and he — had nearly blown two children to oblivion in Reynosa, Mexico.

CD: Not approved…

An urge to strike Laurel swelled. Or to lash out with cruel words about her short stature, wide hips, excessive makeup, her parents’ bankruptcy, her failed love life — a deduction but surely accurate. Metzger’s anger had inflicted only a half dozen bruises or welts over the years; his words had hurt legions. The Smoke did that. The Smoke made you inhuman.

Just leave.

He turned.

Laurel said evenly, “And what’s Rashid’s crime — saying things about America you didn’t like? Asking people to question the values and the integrity of the country?…But isn’t being free to ask questions like that what America’s all about?”

Metzger stopped fast, turned and snapped, “Spoken like the most simple-minded, cliché-ridden of bloggers.” He reseated himself in front of her. “What is it with you? Why do you resent what we do so much?”

“Because what you do is wrong. The United States is a country of laws, not men.”

“‘Government’ of laws,” he corrected. “John Adams. It’s a nice-sounding phrase. But parse it and things aren’t so simple. A government of laws. Okay. Think about that: Laws require interpretation and delegations of power, down and down the line. To people like me — who make decisions on how to implement those laws.”

She fired back with: “Laws don’t include ignoring due process and executing citizens arbitrarily.”

“There’s nothing arbitrary about what I do.”

“No? You kill people you think are going to commit an offense.”

“All right, Counselor. What about a policeman on the street? He sees a perp in a dark alley with what might be a gun. It seems that he’s about to shoot someone. The cop is authorized to kill, right? Where’s your due process there, where’s your reasonable search and seizure, where’s your right to confront your accuser?”

“Ah, but Moreno didn’t have a gun.”

“And sometimes the guy in the alley only has a cell phone. But he gets shot anyway because we’ve chosen to give the police the right to make judgments.” He gave a deep, chill laugh. “Tell me, aren’t you guilty of the same thing?”

“What do you mean?” she snapped.

“What about my due process? What about Barry Shales’s?”

She frowned.

He continued, “In making the case, did you datamine me? Or Barry? Did you get classified information from, say, the FBI? Did you somehow ‘accidentally’ happen to get your hands on NSA intercepts?”

An awkward hesitation. Was she blushing beneath the white mask? “Every bit of evidence I present at trial can pass Fourth Amendment scrutiny.”

Metzger smiled. “I’m not talking about trial. I’m talking about unwarranted gathering of information as part of an investigation.”

Laurel blinked. She said nothing.

He whispered, “You see? We both interpret, we judge, we make decisions. We live in a gray world.”

“You want another quotation, Shreve? Blackstone: ‘Better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer.’ That’s what my system does, makes sure the innocent don’t end up as victims. Yours doesn’t.” She fished her keys from her battered purse. “I’m going to keep watching you.”

“Then I’ll look forward to seeing you in court, Counselor.”

He turned and walked back to his car. He sat, calming, in the front seat, not looking back. Breathing.

Let it go.

Five minutes later he started at his phone’s buzz. He noted Ruth’s number on caller ID.

“Hi, there.”

“Uhm, Shreve. I heard. Is it true about Spencer?”

“Afraid it is. I’ll tell you more later. I don’t want to talk on an open line.”

“Okay. But that’s not why I called. We heard from Washington.”

The Wizard.

“He wanted to schedule a call with you for tomorrow afternoon.”

Didn’t firing squads gather at dawn?

“That’s fine,” he said. “Send me the details.” He stretched. A joint popped. “Say, Ruth?”

“Yes?”

“What did he sound like?”

There was a pause. “He…It wasn’t so good, I don’t think, Shreve.”

“Okay, Ruth. Thank you.”

He disconnected and looked out over the busy crime scene at Spencer Boston’s house. The sour chemical vapors still lingered, surrounding the Colonial home and the grounds.

Smoke…

So that was it. Whether Moreno was guilty or not was irrelevant; Washington now had plenty of reason to disband NIOS. Metzger had picked for his administrations director a whistleblower, and for his defense contractor a corrupt CEO who’d ordered people tortured and killed.

This was the end.

Metzger sighed and put the car in gear, thinking: Sorry, America. I did the best I could.