Walsh stood, and we stood with him. He said, “If anything develops on the way there, I’ll radio the helicopter.”

We all shook hands, and Walsh said, “If you need to stay overnight, find a room.”

I replied, “Don’t expect to see us until we’ve found Harry.”

“Good luck.”

We left Walsh’s office, returned to our desks, shut down our computers and gathered our belongings, then took the elevator to the lobby.

A car and driver were waiting for us outside, and on the way to the heliport, Kate asked me, “What do you think?”

“I think you should never go to the office on your day off. No good deed goes unpunished.”

“I was fortunate to be here.” She asked, “I mean, what do you think about Harry?”

“Based on my experience and on statistics, the most probable explanation for any disappearance, especially that of an adult male, is an accident that hasn’t yet been discovered, a suicide, or a planned disappearance. Rarely is foul play involved.”

She thought about that and asked me, “Do you think he had an accident?”

“No.”

“Suicide?”

“Not Harry.”

“Do you think he’s just goofing off someplace?”

“No.”

“So…”

“Yes.”

We didn’t speak for the rest of the ride.

Afew helicopters sat on the pad, and ours was easy to spot because it had FBI markings, which most FBI aircraft don’t. I prefer to travel and arrive in unmarked conveyances, but the pilot explained that this was the only chopper available on short notice. No big deal.

We climbed aboard the helicopter-a Bell JetRanger-and it lifted from its pad on the East River and followed the river north. To my left was the towering skyline of Manhattan Island, and to my right, the mysterious flatlands of Brooklyn and Queens, where I rarely venture.

We continued north over the Hudson, following the majestic river valley.

In less than ten minutes, we passed over the Tappan Zee Bridge, and a few minutes later, we were flying over open countryside on both sides of the valley as we continued to follow the Hudson River northbound.

I’m not a big fan of the great outdoors, but from up here, the landscape was a spectacular panorama of small towns, farms, and trees whose autumn leaves were glowing in the bright sunlight.

Kate said, “We should get a weekend house up here.”

I knew that was coming. Wherever we go, she wants a weekend house, or a beach house, or a summerhouse, or a ski house, or whatever. We’re up to, I think, fourteen houses. I replied, as I always do, “Great idea.”

The Hudson River, America’s Rhine, sparkled in the sunlight, and we could see mansions and castles along the high riverbanks. I said, “There’s a nice castle with a For Sale sign.”

She ignored this and said, “Sometimes, I think I want to chuck it all, and get a place in the country, and just live a normal life. Do you ever think about that?”

I’d heard this before, too, not only from Kate but from other people since 9/11. The media shrinks were explaining it as post-traumatic stress, war anxiety, fear of another attack, the anthrax scare, and so forth. I replied, “I was ready to pack it in last year, as you recall, but after the attacks, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. I’m motivated.”

She nodded. “I understand. But… I keep thinking that it’s going to happen again, and next time it could be worse. Maybe anthrax, or poison gas, or a radiological device…”

I didn’t respond.

She said, “People have left the city, John.”

“I know. It’s much easier now to get a cab and a dinner reservation.”

“This is not funny.”

“No, it’s not funny.” In fact, I knew people who, since 9/11, had bought places in the country, or bought boats for a quick escape, or simply moved to Dubuque. This was not healthy, though it may have been smart.

I said to Kate, “I’m older than you, and I remember a time when things were different. I don’t like the way these bastards have made us live. I’d like to live long enough to see things get better, and I’d like to be part of making them better.” I added, “I’m not running.”

She didn’t have a response for that, and we both gazed out the windows at the pleasant autumn landscape.

On the west bank of the Hudson, the United States Military Academy at West Point came into view, its tall Gothic spires capturing the sunlight. I could see a formation of cadets on the parade grounds.

Kate said, “Things are not going to get better in your lifetime or mine.”

“You never know. Meanwhile, we’ll give it our best shot.”

She thought a moment and said, “This thing with Harry… it has nothing to do with Islamic terrorism, but it’s all part of the same problem.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s all about people who are engaged in some sort of power struggle. Religion, politics, war, oil, terrorism… the world is headed for something much worse than anything we’ve seen so far.”

“Probably. In the meantime, let’s find Harry.”

She stared out the window.

Kate is physically brave, as I saw when Mr. Khalil was using us for target practice with his sniper rifle, but the last year was taking its toll on her emotional health.

Also, for those of us working in this business, it didn’t help our mental health to read the classified memos we got every day concerning this or that domestic threat. That, plus the looming war with Iraq, was starting to fray the nerves of some of the people I was working with.

Kate had good days and bad days, as we all do. Today was not a good day. In fact, September 10, 2001, was really the last good day.

Two hours and fifteen minutes after we’d left the Downtown Manhattan Heliport, we flew over the upstate town of Saranac Lake. A few minutes later, three long runways forming a triangle came into view, surrounded by forest. I thought I saw bears lurking at the edge of the clearing.

As we descended, I could see some snazzy corporate jets parked on the ramp, though only one of them sported a corporate logo on the tail. In the case of corporate jets, it did not pay to advertise, partly for security reasons, and partly because it pissed off the stockholders. Nevertheless, I looked for a jet that was marked GOCO, but didn’t see any identifying markings as we hovered lower.

The pilot spoke to someone on the radio, then put the chopper down on the pavement behind a long, wood-shingled building that looked like an Adirondack lodge. This building seemed a little incongruous for an airport, but I knew from my infrequent trips into these mountains that the locals took their faux rustic stuff seriously, and I was surprised that the hangars didn’t look like log cabins.

Anyway, the pilot shut down the helicopter’s engine, and the noise level dropped dramatically.

The co-pilot jumped out of the cockpit, swung open the door of the cabin, and took Kate’s hand as she jumped down. I followed without taking the fellow’s hand, and said to him over the sound of the slowing rotor blades, “Did you see any bears?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Are you staying?”

“No. We’ll fuel up, then head back to New York.” As he spoke, I spotted a fuel truck coming in our direction, which is quicker service than I get at my gas station. It must have something to do with the FBI markings on the chopper.