“Don’t mind Fisher. He comes off like a real jerk, but once you get to know him you’ll see he’s worse than he looks,” said Kowalski. “Have some coffee, boys. Your widows will be well cared for, I promise.”

“Don’t want the full breakfast?” Fisher asked.

“We had breakfast on the way, sir,” said the taller of the two men.

“Kowalski made you pay, right?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

“Same old Kowalski. You see his tie? Some of those stains are five years old.”

“It’s a design, Fisher. This is an expensive silk tie that my wife gave me for my birthday. I don’t wear clip-ons like you.”

Fisher considered demonstrating the disadvantages of Kowalski’s sartorial preferences but decided the tactical advantage might come in handy if he had to choke him some day.

Kowalski put his head inside the small fridge at the side of the kitchenette. “You got stuff growing in here.”

“Penicillin. Saves on doctor bills.”

“God,” said Kowalski as he adjusted his coffee. “This is almost drinkable.”

“If I’d known you were coming I would’ve gone all the way.”

Fisher walked into the other half of the apartment, pausing over a pair of card tables that served as his combination dresser and entertainment center. He took his watch, wallet, and Bureau credentials off the ancient Philco TV, then examined his gun, a.44 Magnum nearly as old as the black-and-white TV set and arguably only half as deadly.

“So, how much do you know about the E-bomb?” asked Kowalski.

“I don’t know anything,” said Fisher.

“I heard Macklin called you in to consult.”

“He called me in to look at a computer video of New York City blowing up. He thought I’d be nostalgic,” said Fisher.

“Homeland Security is peeing in their pants,” said Kowalski. There was a note of triumph in his voice. “So you coming aboard or what?”

“I’m not doing anything unless they roll back the cigarette tax,” said Fisher. “Why are you here?”

“Because we’re the ones who came up with the intelligence on the E-bomb in the first place. Macklin didn’t tell you I was the guy who figured it out?”

“No. But probably he had trouble putting your name and the word intelligence together in the same conversation.”

“We’re putting together a joint task force. Homeland Security. DIA. And you.”

“Me?”

“We can use somebody for comic relief.”

“I’m too old to run away and join the circus.”

“Listen, Andy, this is going to develop into a big one. When we bust this, we’ll be on 60 Minutes.”

Fisher thought he detected a smirk from Kowalski’s taller sidekick. There was hope for the country yet.

“You really do want to join up,” added Kowalski. “I told Macklin it was a great idea. That’s why I’m here.”

Fisher took the cigarette butt down to the nub, then put it out in a glass of water in the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Under ordinary circumstances he would have left it there, but since he had company he thought it best to keep up appearances: He leaned over to the nearby window and tossed the butt down into the alley.

“So? You in or out?” asked Kowalski.

“Boss promised me a nice Internet porn case if I show up for work before noon today.”

“Internet porn? Come on. That’s not your style. You’re a high-tech guy. National security. Lives on the line. Not T & A.”

“Nothing wrong with a little T & A now and again,” observed Fisher.

“Seriously, Andy. Come on. Macklin wants you. I want you. We could use some help determining if this thing is real or not.”

“No, thanks.”

“Could be a career boost. Jump in pay-get you into some upscale digs.”

“This place isn’t upscale?” Fisher spread his hands around his domain. “Listen, I have to get going. Thanks for the wake-up call. But I got a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“A serious question.”

“Shoot.”

“How come you used the salad dressing instead of milk in your coffee?”

Howe handed his entire wallet to the Secret Service agent, letting him examine his license even though his ID had been checked twice before and he already knew his name was on the list of visitors. He’d been to the West Wing of the White House only once before, and that time he had been accompanied by a high-ranking assistant to Blitz, Howard McIntyre, who’d smoothed him past all the security hoops and barriers. It was somewhat different this time around. To the men checking his ID he was just another name on the list. Howe thought he liked it that way.

The agent pointed at him and gestured to the side of the hallway. Howe stepped over to the wall, unsure of what was going on, but he wasn’t being singled out for a search and there was nothing wrong with his credentials. A moment later a phalanx of dark-suited men appeared, leading the way for President Jack D’Amici and his entourage. Dr. Blitz was at President D’Amici’s side, and the two men were engaged in a deep discussion. The secretaries of defense and state walked immediately behind, frowning deeply, while a handful of aides scurried behind, trying to keep up.

Deep furrows lined the President’s forehead. The tips of his close-cropped hair were stained gray, and though his body was trim, even on the thin side, the flesh at the corners of his chin had begun to sag. He was perhaps two decades older than Howe, young for a president, though the office weighed on him as it weighed on every man.

Howe had met him after the recovery of Cyclops One, the airborne laser plane that had been hijacked and then recovered by a team Howe had led. The pilot had come away from the meeting disappointed; spending a few minutes alone with the President had punctured the larger-than-life fantasy he’d unknowingly had of the man. But now that he saw him in the hall, absorbed in thought, Howe felt a sensation of awe take hold. This was the President of the United States, the commander in chief, and if he wasn’t larger than life-if he wasn’t a god or even a demigod-he was nonetheless a man of uncommon ability and even greater responsibility.

President D’Amici shook his head at something Blitz said. As he did he turned toward Howe, catching a glimpse of him.

“Colonel Howe, how are you?” said the President, as matter-of-factly as if he saw Howe every day. Before Howe could actually say anything in response, D’Amici added, “Good, good,” and walked on, not even breaking his stride. Blitz himself took no notice of Howe, not even pausing in his conversation.

“Hey, Colonel,” said a tall black man peeling off from the back of the formation to pump Howe’s hand.

“ Tyler?”

“How the hell are you?” Major Kenal Tyler had been an Army Special Forces captain when he and Howe had met a few months before. Tyler had led a team that helped recover the Cyclops airborne laser weapon.

“You’re in D.C. now?” asked Howe.

Tyler laughed. “Everybody’s got to be somewhere. I’m on a special task force. Brain work. I’m attached to the Joint Chiefs staff, but I’ve been doing tons of work for the NSC. What are you doing these days?”

“Supposed to meet Dr. Blitz.”

“Great. You going to work for him?”

Howe shrugged.

Tyler looked at him as if he expected an explanation. When Howe didn’t offer one, the major suggested they have a drink sometime. “Where you staying?”

Howe told him the hotel. Tyler nodded-it wasn’t clear to Howe whether he was truly interested in getting together or not-then ran off down the hall to catch up with the others.

If the Secret Service agent was impressed by the fact that Howe knew the President, it didn’t show in his manner. He checked the ID again before letting Howe pass.

“Would you like some coffee, Colonel?” asked Mozelle Clarke, Blitz’s administrative assistant, when he arrived in Blitz’s office a few minutes later.

“Not really, thanks. I’m kind of coffeed out this morning.”