Jessen thanked Wahl.

"Anything else I can do, Detective, just call me."

She too thanked the security chief, who left. Then she said to Jessen, "I'd like copies of their resumes. Everybody on the list. Or if you have employee profiles, CVs. Anything."

"Yes, I can arrange for that." She asked her assistant to make a copy of the list and pull together personnel information for everybody on it.

Another man, slightly out of breath, arrived in Jessen's office. Midforties, Sachs estimated. He was a little doughy and had unruly brown hair, mixed with gray. "Cute" seemed to fit. There was a boyish quality about him, Sachs decided. Sparkling eyes and raised eyebrows and a fidgety nature. The sleeves of his wrinkled striped shirt were rolled up. Food crumbs, it seemed, dusted his slacks.

"Detective Sachs," Jessen said. "This is Charlie Sommers, special projects manager."

He shook the detective's hand.

The president looked at her watch, stood and donned a suit jacket she'd selected from a large closet of clothes. Sachs wondered if she pulled all-nighters. Jessen brushed at skin flakes or dust on the shoulders. "I have to meet with our PR firm and then hold a press conference. Charles, could you take Detective Sachs back to your office? She's got some questions for you. Help her however you can."

"Sure. Be happy to."

Jessen was looking out the window at her dynasty-the massive building, the superstructure of towers and cables and scaffolding. With the fast-flowing East River glistening in the background, she seemed like the captain of a huge ship. The woman was obsessively rubbing her right thumb and forefinger together, a gesture of stress that Sachs recognized immediately, since she often did the same. "Detective Sachs, how much wire did he use for that attack?"

Sachs told her.

The CEO nodded and kept looking out the window. "So he's got enough left for six or seven more. If we can't stop him."

Andi Jessen didn't seem to want a response. She didn't even seem to be speaking to the other people in the room.

AFTER WORK, A different social tone emerged in Tompkins Square Park, in the East Village. Young couples, some in Brooks Brothers, some pierced and sporting tats, strolling with their toddlers. Musicians, lovers, clusters of twenty-somethings headed home from despised day jobs and filled with expanding joy at what the night might hold. The smells here were hot dog water, pot, curry and incense.

Fred Dellray was on a bench near a large, spreading elm tree. He'd glanced at the plaque when he'd arrived and learned this was where the founder of the Hari Krishna movement had chanted the group's mantra in 1966 for the first time outside India.

He'd never known that. Dellray preferred secular philosophy to theology but had studied all major religions and he knew that the Hari Krishna sect included four basic rules in order to follow dharma, the righteous path: mercy, self-control, honesty and cleanliness of body and spirit.

He was reflecting on those qualities and how they were figured in today's New York City versus South Asia, when feet scuffed behind him.

His hand hadn't even made it halfway to his weapon when he heard the voice, "Fred."

It troubled Dellray deeply that he'd been caught off guard. William Brent wasn't a threat but he easily could have been.

Another sign of losing his touch?

He nodded to the man to sit. Wearing a black suit that had seen better days, Brent was nondescript, a little jowly with direct eyes under swept-back hair, sprayed into place. He wore steel-rimmed glasses that had been out of style when Dellray had been running him. But they were practical. Typical of William Brent.

The CI crossed his legs and glanced at the tree. He wore argyle socks and scuffed penny loafers.

"Been well, Fred?"

"Okay. Busy."

"You always were."

Dellray didn't bother to ask what Brent had been up to. Or what his present name was, for that matter. Or career. It would have been a waste of energy and time.

"Jeep. Strange creature, isn't he?"

"Is," Dellray agreed.

"How long you think he'll live?"

Dellray paused but then answered honestly, "Three years."

"Here. But if Atlanta works out, he'd probably last for a while. If he doesn't get stupid."

Dellray was encouraged by the extent of his knowledge. Even Dellray hadn't known exactly where Jeep was going.

"So, Fred, you know I'm a working man now. Legitimate. What'm I doing here?"

"Because you listen."

"Listen?"

"Why I liked running you. You always listened. You heard things. Got this feeling you hear things still."

"This about that explosion at the bus stop?"

"Uh-huh."

"Some electrical malfunction." Brent smiled. "The news said that. I've always wondered about this obsession we have with the media. Why should I believe anything? They tell us that untalented actors and twenty-nine-year-old pop stars with excessive tits and cocaine problems behave badly. Why does that merit more than a millisecond of our consciousness?… That bus stop, Fred. Something else happened there."

"Something else happened." Dellray had been assuming one role with Jeep. That was a made-for-TV movie, melodramatic. But here, with William Brent, he was a Method actor. Subtle and real. The lines had been written over the years but the performance came from his heart. "I really need to know what."

"I liked working with you, Fred. You were… difficult but you were always honest."

So, I'm one quarter of the way to dharmic enlightenment. The agent said, "Are we going to keep going here?"

"I'm retired. Being a snitch can be detrimental to your health."

"People come outa retirement all the time. Economy's fucked. Their social security checks don't go as far as they thought." Dellray repeated, "We going to keep going here?"

Brent stared at the elm tree for a long, long fifteen seconds. "We'll keep going. Give me some deets and I'll see if it's worth my time and the risk. To both of us."

To both of us? Dellray wondered. Then continued, "We don't have many details. But there's maybe a terror group called Justice For we don't know what. The leader might be somebody named Rahman."

"They were behind it, the bus stop?"

"Possibly. And somebody who might be connected with the company. No ID yet. Man, woman, we don't know."

"What exactly happened that they aren't saying? A bomb?"

"No. The perp manipulated the grid."

Brent's eyebrow rose behind the archaic glasses. "The grid. Electricity… think about it. That's worse than an IED… With the grid, the explosive's already there, in everybody's house, in everybody's office. All he has to do is pull a few switches. I'm dead, you're dead. And not a pretty way to go."

"Why I'm here."

"Justice For something… Any idea what's on their to-do list?"

"No. Islamic, Aryan, political, domestic, foreign, eco. We don't know."

"Where'd the name come from? Translated?"

"No. Was intercepted that way. 'Justice.' And 'For.' In English. Other words too. But they didn't get 'em."

" 'They.' " Brent gave a furrow of a smile, and Dellray wondered if he knew exactly what Dellray was doing here, that he'd been tweaked aside by the brave new world of electronics. SIGINT. "Anybody take credit?" the man asked in his soft voice.

"Not yet."

Brent was thinking, hard. "And it would take a whole lot of planning to put something like this together. Lot of strands to get woven."

"Would, sure."

And a flutter of muscles in Brent's face told Dellray that some pieces were falling together. He was thrilled to see this. But of course revealed nothing.

Brent confirmed in a whisper, "I have heard something, yes. About somebody doing some mischief."