"I'm not at liberty to say."

"All right," Beth said, "Write out your name, address, and phone number. You'll be asked to come in for questioning."

Gibbs seemed annoyed, but also relieved he was off the hook for now. Also, I had the strong suspicion that Gibbs, Foster, and Nash had made one another's acquaintance earlier this morning.

I went over to look at the stuff on the wall near the radios. There was a big map of eastern Long Island, the Sound, and southern Connecticut. On the map were a series of concentric circles, with New London, Connecticut, at the center. It looked like one of those atomic bomb destruction maps that tell you how fried your ass is going to be relative to your distance from ground zero. I saw on this map that Plum Island was within the last circle, which I guess was either good or bad news, depending on what this map was about. The map didn't explain, so I asked Mr. Gibbs, "What is this?"

He looked to where I was pointing and said, "Oh, there's a nuclear reactor in New London. Those circles represent the various danger zones if there were an explosion or meltdown."

I considered the irony of a nuclear reactor in New London posing a danger to Plum Island, which itself posed a danger to everyone in New London, depending on the wind. I asked Kenneth Gibbs, "Do you think the nuke people have a map showing the danger to them of a biocontainment leak on Plum Island?"

Even straight Mr. Gibbs had to smile at that, though it was a weird smile. Gibbs and Stevens probably practiced that smile on each other. Gibbs said, "Actually, the people at the nuclear reactor do have a map such as you describe." He added, "I sometimes wonder what would happen if an earthquake caused a biocontainment leak and a nuclear leak at the same time. Would the radioactivity kill the germs?" He smiled again. Weird, weird. He mused philosophically, "The modern world is full of unimaginable horrors."

This seemed to be the Plum Island mantra. I suggested helpfully, "If I were you, I'd wait for a good southerly wind and release the anthrax. Get them before they get you."

"Yeah. Good idea."

I asked Mr. Gibbs, "Where is Mr. Stevens' office?"

"Room 250."

"Thanks."

The intercom buzzed and a male voice came out of the speaker saying, "Dr. Zollner will see his guests now."

We all thanked Mr. Gibbs for his time, and he thanked us for coming, which made us all liars. Beth reminded him that she'd be seeing him in her office.

We met Donna out in the corridor, and as we walked, I commented to her, "These doors don't have names or titles on them."

"Security," she replied tersely.

"Which is Paul Stevens' office?"

"Room 225," she replied.

Proving once again that the best security is a lie. She led us to the end of a corridor and opened door number 200.

Donna said, "Please have a seat. Dr. Zollner's secretary, June, will be with us in a moment."

We all sat, and Donna stood there waiting for June.

After a minute or so, a middle-aged woman with a tight expression came out of a side door. Donna said, "June, these are Dr. Zollner's guests."

June barely acknowledged us and sat at her desk without a word.

Donna wished us a good day and departed. I noticed that we were never left alone for even a second. I'm a real fan of tight security, except when it's directed at me.

Anyway, I missed Donna already. She was really nice. There are a lot of nice women out there, but between my recent divorce and more recent hospitalization and convalescence, I hadn't really been in the game.

I regarded Beth Penrose. She looked at me, almost smiled, then turned away.

I next regarded George Foster. He always seemed the picture of composure. I assumed that behind those vacuous eyes was a fine brain. I hoped so.

Sylvester Maxwell was tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. I think he was generally pleased that he'd hired me, but he might be wondering how he could control a dollar-a-week independent consultant who was generally pissing off everyone.

The waiting room was the same dove gray with dark gray trim and gray carpet as the rest of the structure. You could get sensory deprivation in this place.

Regarding Room 250, what I knew for sure about Room 250 is that neither Paul Stevens nor his diploma was in there. There were probably twenty rabid dogs in Room 250 waiting to eat my cajones. Regarding Room 225, I wasn't sure… Nothing on this island was quite what it seemed, and no one was entirely truthful.

I said to the secretary, "My aunt was named June."

She looked up from her desk and stared at me.

I continued, "It's a pretty name. Reminds me of late spring and early summer, for some reason. Summer solstice, you know?"

June kept staring at me and her eyes narrowed. Scary.

I said to June, "Call Dr. Zollner on the intercom and tell him he has ten seconds to receive us, or we'll get an arrest warrant for obstruction of justice. Nine seconds."

She hit the intercom and said, "Dr. Zollner, please come here. Now."

"Five seconds."

The door to the right opened, and a big, beefy, bearded man in a white shirt and blue tie appeared. He said, "Yes? What is the problem?"

June pointed directly to me and said, "Him."

Beefy looked at me. "Yes?"

I stood. Everyone else stood. I recognized Dr. Zollner from the chain-of-command photos in the lobby, and I said, "We have come across the sea and have traveled many miles, Doctor, and overcome many obstacles to find you, and you repay us by jerking us off."

"Excuse me?"

June butted in, "Shall I call security, Doctor?"

"No, no." He looked at his guests and said, "Well, come in, come in."

We went in, went in.

Dr. Zollner's corner office was big, but the furniture, walls, and carpet were the same as all the others. There was an impressive array of framed things hanging on the wall behind his desk. On the other walls were crappy abstracts, real junk like you see in the best museums.

Still standing, we all introduced ourselves, using our titles and job descriptions this time. It appeared to me-and this had to be a guess again-that Zollner had already met Nash and Foster.

We all pressed the flesh, and Zollner smiled brightly. He said, "So, welcome. I trust Mr. Stevens and Ms. Alba have been helpful?"

He had a slight accent, German probably, if the name was any indication. As I said, he was big-fat, actually-and he had white hair and a white Van Dyke beard and thick glasses. In fact, he looked like Burl Ives, if you want the truth.

Dr. Zollner invited us to sit-"Sit, sit"-and we sat, sat. He began by saying, "I am still in shock over this tragedy. I couldn't sleep last night."

Beth inquired, "Who called you last night with the news, Doctor?"

"Mr. Stevens. He said he'd been called by the police." Zollner continued, "The Gordons were brilliant scientists and very well respected among their colleagues." He added, "I hope you solve this case very quickly."

Beth replied, "So do we."

Zollner continued, "Also, let me apologize for keeping you waiting. I have been on the phone all morning."

Nash said, "I assume, Doctor, you've been advised not to give interviews."

Zollner nodded. "Yes, yes. Of course. No, I didn't give any information, but I read the prepared statement. The one that came from Washington."

Foster requested, "Can you read it to us?"

"Yes, of course, of course." He rummaged around his desk, found a sheet of paper, adjusted his specs, and read, " 'The Secretary of Agriculture regrets the tragic deaths of Drs. Thomas and Judith Gordon, employees of the Department of Agriculture. We will not engage in speculation regarding the circumstances of these deaths. Questions regarding the investigation of the deaths should be directed to the local police, who can better answer those questions.'"