No one said this to his face, of course. But he was a cop, too: he knew. Though a pure odds player might go the other way, thinking all Fisk’s bad luck had run its course, instead everyone felt he had the mark on him. He was radioactive now.

“And all the shit you had to go through,” Link said. “No witnesses, all that. Reconstructing it. That had to wear you down.”

Fisk took another drink. “Little bit.”

“Gotta stick to your story. I don’t mean it that way. I just mean you gotta tell that same story fifty goddamn times before anyone believes you.”

The CIA agent saw that he had misplayed that. Fisk’s body language was telling him to fuck off.

“Hey,” said Link. “That came out wrong. Look, I got into it myself once. A little dust-up in Fallujah. Took down an insurgent and one of our own translators who flipped on me. Entrenching tool. Saving my own life cost me two months of inquests, affidavits, all that muck. No time for the act of it, the killing, to get digested. That shit sticks to your soul.”

Fisk nodded like maybe Link should change the subject now. The barmaid breezed by, eyes wide in a Want another? expression. Fisk needed to slow down. He ordered a Peroni. Link asked for two.

“On me,” he said, as she went away. “I guess with tits like that she doesn’t have to be friendly.” Link trying to worm his way back into Fisk’s good graces. Fisk wanted to ask him to what he owed this honor, but instead chose to watch Link work for whatever he wanted.

“Bottom line is, you took another major threat off the street. With the added bonus of putting the fear of God in people. Fifty bucks says everybody in this place knows what a smoky bomb is.”

A dirty bomb is a radiological weapon that disperses radioactive material via conventional explosives. The explosive blast would cause moderate short-range lethal damage, and the blast wave carrying radioactive material would sicken a wide radius of innocent persons. At least, that was the theory: in fact, no such device had ever been used as a terror weapon. Two attempts at radiological terror had been made, both in Chechnya, both involving cesium-containing bombs, but neither of which was ever detonated.

“Dirty” isotopes emit penetrating gamma rays, which are difficult to shield and handle safely. A so-called smoky bomb uses alpha radiation instead, produced by the radioactive decay of certain isotopes, such as polonium 210. Polonium is unusually common and is used in industries involving static electricity control and ionizing air. Alpha radiation is easily shielded and therefore easier to handle safely. A thin layer of aluminum foil is enough to safeguard its handling. Polonium must be eaten or inhaled to cause harm.

The Swedes had hit upon a way to finely divide and pulverize the polonium into particulate matter for explosive dispersal. The bomb, if detonated, could have killed hundreds. A few breaths were all that was necessary to sicken a victim, perhaps fatally. And the long-term psychological damage to a region such as Manhattan—Times Square was allegedly the Swedes’ intended ground zero—would have been sociologically crippling.

Most first responders, including those in and around New York City, carried only gamma radiation detectors, suitable for dirty bomb fallout, but unable to detect alphas. Pending federal legislation aimed to remedy that.

Fisk looked around at the drinkers filling Pence, people filing in after work, singles, couples. A few breaths of smoky radioactive debris. Ten seconds. An ugly death or a lifetime of illness.

“And how you faring?” asked Link, after the barmaid left their drinks. He had handed her a credit card this time, and she frowned, now needing to make an extra trip back to the table, and tucked the card into her cleavage for safekeeping.

“Good,” said Fisk. “Medically cleared.”

The Swedes had apparently overestimated just how “safe” it was to handle polonium. Fisk had taken the stainless steel container, which was apparently somehow not airtight. About an hour after seeing his prisoner booked into custody, Fisk began throwing up. He had tremors and some localized burns on his hand and hip. His long-term diagnosis was uncertain, depending on the amount of cellular and genetic damage he had suffered. His relatively quick recovery boded well, according to the doctors, but ultimately only time would tell.

Bengtson/Muhammad had not been so lucky. After losing three fingers to frostbite, he started hemorrhaging a few weeks after his arrest due to radiological poisoning and suffered a disabling stroke. He was currently on life support, and his trial had been postponed indefinitely.

Fisk held out his hand. Fairly steady. The tremors had continued long after the exposure, and his therapist, Dr. Flaherty, helped him see that the lingering effects were at least partly psychological. He had come back to Intel two months before but hadn’t yet been returned to full duty, working special projects and generally riding a desk until he was cleared psychologically.

But some days—even in the late-summer heat—Fisk still found himself shivering.

“Thank you,” said Link to the barmaid, who winked and hustled away to the next customer. Link held his credit card to his nose for a moment before returning it to his wallet. “Ambrosia,” he said, with a sigh. Then he ribbed Fisk with his elbow. “Kidding. Sweat and maybe moisturizer. I’ve never been jealous of a credit card before.”

Fisk drank the top inch or more of his Peroni, the Italian beer a nice change of pace after the Jack Daniel’s. “This is the longest sales pitch in history,” he said to Link.

Link shook his head, drinking his own beer, unoffended. “Not a pitch at all. Just an offer. And this isn’t just me, this is a bunch of guys, we think we can pull this off. We like your style, Fisk. We know you’ve been through hell. We’re doing this for you.”

Fisk was skeptical. “Who do I have to kill?” he said.

Link laughed, nodding. “Kill another swig of that beer, and I’ll tell you.”

Fisk did as he was told.

“Jenssen moves to Florence, Colorado, in two days. He’ll be in the supermax there, total isolation, a deep, dark hole from which he will never emerge. Nor will anyone except maybe his lawyer be able to reach him.”

“And?”

“Tomorrow night, there’s a window of time. Maybe as much as an hour. We can put you together with him. One on one.”

Fisk felt icy needles enter his chest—even as he was trying to figure out this guy’s game.

Link added hastily, “I’m not talking anything physical. You want to kick his ass, you’re shit out of luck. Can’t make that happen. But we can do this. The marshals are on board. Jenssen would have no warning.”

Fisk snuck a look at his hands. No shaking.

Link said, “ ‘Closure’ is such a bullshit word. You’re never gonna get that. This guy took your lady. Even if you did take him out—fantasy talk here—as good as that might feel in the moment, it gets you nothing. But sitting before him, eye to eye . . . with no pretenses. No cameras. No judge to play to. Nowhere for him to hide. Sit with him as you sit here with me.”

Fisk was shaking his head.

“Don’t say no yet.”

“No,” said Fisk. “You just said, it gets me nothing. Nothing.”

“I think what it gets you is up to you.”

Fisk put his hand around his cold glass of beer, but did not drink from it. “And? What’s it get you?”

“So suspicious,” said Link, taking a drink. “I’m being up front about wanting to do this for you. Will we be listening? You can assume we will.” Link gave a cursory glance around the immediate area for eavesdroppers. “Jenssen is a very disciplined guy. But he’s also a braggart. Big ego. And it was kind of mano a mano between you two. You kicked his Swedish ass. Took him apart like a chest of drawers from Ikea. So, sure, Jenssen could be off his game here, knowing the future he’s facing. His last chance to bark and be heard. Maybe he’s holding something big back? Maybe it slips? Maybe it’s a name, or some little detail? Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe we do you this solid for exactly the reason I’m giving you. Because you earned it.” Link knocked once on the table. “Catharsis, man.”