“Can you get them for me?”

“I think so; it may take me a few days.”

“Be careful. Don’t put yourself at risk.”

“It’s worth a risk, if you can keep doing this sort of thing. Can you imagine the mess if those people had been able to pull off what they were planning?”

“I’m glad to have been able to stop them, but it’s equally important to me that you not be found out. Please respect my wishes in that regard.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll be careful.”

“I’ll check in with you before or after work in a day or two, to see if you’ve made any progress.”

“Okay. I’ll do the best I can.”

“It was good talking to you. Goodbye.” He hung up. Any doubts he may have had about whether they were onto him had now been resolved. “Okay,” he said aloud, “the game is on.”

HOLLY PASSED THE FRONT of the building she had been looking for in the east Forties, turned into the steep ramp leading down to the garage and was stopped by what appeared to be a heavy steel door. There was an intercom box with a keypad and a bell button outside her window, so she rolled it down and pressed the button.

“State your name,” a metallic-sounding voice said.

“Holly Barker.”

“Are you alone?”

“No, Sally Liu is with me, and my dog, Daisy.”

“Read aloud the last four digits of your personal serial numbers; they’re on the back of your I.D. cards.”

Both women got out their cards, and Holly read the numbers.

“Proceed into the garage. You’ll be met and directed to a parking space. Step out of the car with your hands away from your body and stand still.” The steel door rolled up, and another, steel mesh door behind that rolled up, too.

Holly drove slowly into the garage and saw two men waving her into a parking space. She and Sally got out of the car and the two men searched them with electronic wands and took their firearms. “These will be returned to you upstairs,” one of the men said, “and your luggage will be delivered to your rooms. Please take the elevator to the lobby and report to the man at the desk.”

Holly, Sally and Daisy rode up two floors in the elevator and got out. They were in what appeared to be the lobby of an apartment building. Ahead of them in the marble-lined lobby was a reception desk, and two men in doormen’s uniforms were behind the chest-high counter.

“Good afternoon,” one of the men said. “Ms. Barker and Ms. Liu and, I believe, Daisy?”

“That’s right,” Holly said.

The man placed a clipboard on the counter. “Please sign in.”

Holly and Sally signed and noted the time of their arrival.

The man handed them keys. “Your rooms are on the sixth floor, and your luggage and weapons will be delivered there shortly, after your bags have been searched. There will be a meeting in the twelfth-floor conference room at five p.m. Please do not leave the building before that time.”

“I’ll need to take my dog outside for a couple of minutes,” Holly said.

“Very well, but stay within a hundred feet of the building and within sight of the doorman.”

They took the elevator to the sixth floor, which was like that of an ordinary apartment building, and found their rooms next door to each other. Holly’s room was a small studio apartment. She had a bedroom with a sitting area, a kitchenette and a bathroom with a shower. It was much like a medium-priced hotel room. The windows looked out onto Second Avenue, and she was impressed that she heard zero traffic noise.

She took Daisy downstairs and allowed her to relieve herself near the building, and when she came back, her bags had been delivered and her weapons were on the bed. She unpacked, then switched on the TV and watched reports of the bombing on the news channels until five o’clock. Then she collected Sally, and they rode up to the twelfth floor and were directed to the conference room, which contained a large table and two dozen chairs. The other three members of their team were there, and a moment later, looking tired, Lance Cabot walked into the room.

“Please be seated,” he said, “and we’ll begin the briefing.”

LANCE SAT DOWN WEARILY at the head of the conference table.

“Good morning,” he said. “Those of you who have just arrived, welcome to New York. Ladies and gentlemen of the FBI, welcome to the CIA.

“This building is the new headquarters of the New York City station of the recently formed counterterrorist arm of the directorate of operations of the Central Intelligence Agency. We bought the building when it was under construction and added many, ah, improvements. For instance, the exterior walls are clad with two half-inch layers of armor, one of steel, one of Kevlar. The exterior cladding and the interior drywall are installed over that; the windows facing the streets are two-inch-thick armored glass, so that you may feel safe in your beds. Those of you who do not already live in New York are being housed here temporarily, until you learn something of the city and are ready to move into quarters of your own choosing, which you may not choose until the location and other attributes have been approved by our chief of security.

“There is no smoking anywhere in this installation. Meals are served continuously in our own restaurant on the penthouse floor, one above us. Laundry and dry cleaning may be left at the front desk; there is a laundry room in subbasement one, and a garage in subbasement two. Communications, technical services and the armory are in subbasement three, well underground.

“The building is as secure as we can possibly make it, with cameras and audio pickups practically everywhere. You will be admitted to the building only after you have properly identified yourselves, and you are not to have visitors without a written pass from the chief of security’s office, which will not be given lightly.

“Each of you will be issued a rather special personal telephone which operates on both cell and satellite systems and which has a GPS capability, so that you can be tracked, when necessary. You are to carry it on your person at all times, set to vibrate, and you are never to turn it off, so carry at least two backup batteries. You are not to lose it; I hope that is perfectly clear.”

Lance took a deep breath. “Now, let me tell you why you are here. Last year a man retired from the Technical Services Department of the Agency. I expect you’ve heard of him: his name was Theodore Fay.”

Everyone shifted expectantly in their seats.

“Teddy Fay was a genius at his work. At one time or another in a career of forty years or so, he worked in every division of Tech Services-documents, communications, weapons, electronic surveillance-and he excelled in each one of them. For the last ten years of his career, he served as a Tech Services coordinator-an outfitter, as the field agents call them. It was his job to equip a field agent with clothing, documents, weapons, communications devices, maps-everything he or she could possibly need.

“When Teddy retired, he kept busy by faking his own death and disappearing from the face of the earth. At the same time, he caused to disappear every photograph and every record of his employment by the agency that ever existed. After he dematerialized, he began killing people whose politics he disagreed with-all right-wing political figures. You’ve read about those killings, of course, and seen the TV news reports.

“Finally, or almost finally, he retreated to a well-prepared hideout on a Maine island, but the FBI tracked him there and surrounded the place. But Teddy also had a well-prepared escape route. He got out, walked to the little airfield on the island and flew himself out. At the behest of the FBI the president ordered two navy jets into the air to pursue him and force him down or shoot him down. Before they could accomplish their mission, Teddy exploded his own aircraft and himself with it.