He looked over his shoulder at the FBI, then walked away. The police moved about the apartment. I could hear doors popping open as they methodically checked the other, rooms. Someone grabbed Jibril, shouting, "Get your hands behind your head. Down on the ground. Move it!"

"Don't push me, man, I'm already wounded," Jibril protested, glaring at me. He complied with the officer's demands. "Yeah. Don't you people need a warrant or something?"

An FBI agent frisked Michael and took his badge and gun. "Down on the ground."

"And you wanted to cooperate," I sneered at Michael. I slowly pulled the gun out butt first, ready to surrender it. So far, however, the cops and the agents were ignoring me. They concentrated their testosterone-hyped bullying on the men. I scanned the uniforms for a woman. Without one, I might be spared the humiliating process of being frisked until we reached wherever they intended to take us. With luck, I could secrete the mysterious object somewhere before then.

"Get down on the ground," the FBI agent growled, infuriated that Michael continued to stand there – blatantly disobeying his order.

"Not until I know what's this is all about," Michael said, his tone perfectly reasonable. "I'm not going anywhere until I get a little explanation here."

"Yeah," I piped up, finding my voice. "What exactly are the charges? What's the Bureau's business here, anyway?"

"Conspiracy to commit terrorism," a uniformed cop explained, since the FBI agent's eyes were locked on Michael. "The Bureau is always called in on terrorist charges."

A cold fear settled in my stomach. Conspiracy to terrorism was the same damn charges they'd tried to pin on me. Conspiracy was an impossible rap to evade because hearsay was admissible in court. America has always hated terrorists. I knew from my days in the department that when terrorism got pinned on some poor sap, he was going down, even if it meant doctoring a little of the evidence. I looked at Michael and saw a shadow of Daniel's face flit through my mind. We were completely screwed.

I held my breath. The fluorescent yellow on black of the FBI uniforms burned into my eyes. The apartment was filled with movement. Somewhere behind me, a bookcase was overturned with a crash.

"Get down!" The agent raged. I saw his grip shift, readying to strike Michael with the butt of the rifle.

"No!" I switched the Magnum in my hand, and my feet suddenly carried me forward. Michael twisted at my sound. The agent's swing whizzed inches from his jaw. Anger flashed in Michael's eyes, and he pivoted with enhanced speed. In one fluid motion, he backhanded the agent. Still in the follow-through of the missed punch, the agent's face collided with Michael's fist with a crack.

Someone tackled me from behind. I felt my legs swept out from under me. The nubby carpeting softened the impact of my chin on the floor. My body went limp. I didn't resist as the gun was pried out of my numb fingers. Turning my head, I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn't want to see the rest. I could hear Michael's shouts of protest mingling with Daniel's ghostly cries.

The coffee was stale and the room smelled of old cigarette smoke. I peeled the edges of the Styrofoam cup and lined the pieces up in a straight row on the marred table. The clock on the wall read two in the morning. A headache hovered on the edges of my consciousness, while the shadows on dirty gray walls haunted me. The FBI agent who was playing "good cop" did not look happy. He glanced over at the one-way glass and cleared his throat. "Maybe we should try this again?"

It wasn't really a question I was expected to respond to, so I continued peeling. The line of white pieces was getting longer. I imagined them as lifeboats abandoning the tepid coffee. The wood of the table looked like an enormous dark sea. The white pieces were tiny by comparison.

"How do you know Jibril Freshta?"

I glanced up at the agent's deceptively soft green eyes and sighed. "I told you already. I don't. Until now, I'd never even heard his last name."

"What were you doing at his apartment?" He looked as impatient with this process as I was. "It seems rather coincidental, then, wouldn't you agree, Ms. McMannus, that you were with a known Muslim radical and a possible member of the Malachim Nikamah, at the time?"

"Malachim? You mean Michael?"

The agent nodded. "I've been told his precinct's Internal Affairs Department has had a close watch on him since his transfer from Pennsylvania."

"Gee," I sneered, "I wonder who told you that."

"Don't be a wiseass, McMannus," bad cop said from where he leaned against the wall. It was Dorshak. For effect, he wore just his shirtsleeves. The black holster was a dark contrast to the perfectly pressed white oxford. He'd been showing me that gun for hours. Instead of being impressed with the battered .45, all I could think was he must have gotten a raise finally, after all this time. His shirt was so white that under the harsh light it almost blinded me. I recognized his haircut from last week's issue of GQ. Too bad he didn't have the looks to carry it off. It made him look half-finished, as though he had all the right parts, but none of them fit.

"So," I said, leaning back in the chair. I held up my bruised chin with more confidence than I felt. "You've had me followed ever since our phone conversation, haven't you, Ted?"

"I knew you couldn't stay away from Angelucci." Dorshak squinted. He crossed his arms in front of his barrel chest. He used his fists to give his biceps extra bulk. "I tried to warn you this would happen."

I laughed. "Oh, yeah. Thanks a lot. You're a true friend."

"Don't act like any of this is my fault, McMannus. You're the one with the history of consorting with terrorists and murderers." Dorshak's tone was indignant and he wagged his finger at me. "Why don't you try cooperating with the Bureau for once, and answer this guy's questions, huh?"