They continued to be swept helplessly along in the frigid waters at terrifying speed, clinging to each other as best they could. Gideon could barely keep his face above the churning, roiling river. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark again, he could see farther—a terrifying descent of whitewater, huge haystacks, and standing waves. They flew over one haystack, tumbled and fought to right themselves, almost losing grip on each other. Gideon thrashed to the surface, took a huge breath, then was forced under again by the powerful current. Now they were both completely underwater, caught like leaves in the immense turbulence. He struck violently against an underwater boulder and Alida’s grasp was jarred loose.

He fought his way back to the surface, coughing and gasping. He tried to call out, breathed in water, and began choking instead. He fought to stay on the surface, to orient himself in the current. The current was slowing just slightly, but still moving at a terrible pace. He managed to get his head up and gulped air, trying to get his breath back.

“Alida!”

No answer. He peered around but saw nothing besides whitewater and dark canyon walls. The three choppers were now quite a way upstream, but there were two others coming in below them, lights playing over the roiling surface of the river. As the first approached, Gideon held his breath and went under, keeping his eyes open. The big blue glow passed by; he rose, took another breath, and submerged until the second glow was behind him.

He came back up. “Alida!”

Still no answer. And now he could see and hear, up ahead, more whitewater. As it approached and the roar grew to fill the air, drowning out the choppers, he realized it was worse—far worse—than what they had passed through.

And there was no sign, none whatsoever, of Alida.

Stone Fordyce peered down through the open door of the chopper, manipulating the control stick of the “night sun,” the chopper’s powerful spotlight. As the pool of light played over the boiling surface of the river, he felt an unexpected catharsis, a certain sense of mingled relief and sadness—there didn’t seem to be any way a person could survive those horrible rapids. It was over.

“What’s beyond this whitewater?” Fordyce asked the pilot through his headset.

“More whitewater.”

“And then?”

“The river eventually comes out into Cochiti Lake,” said the pilot, “about five miles downstream.”

“So there’s five miles of this whitewater?”

“Off and on. There’s one really bad stretch just downstream.”

“Follow the river to Cochiti Lake, then, but take it slow.”

The pilot wended his way down the river while Fordyce searched the surface with the spotlight. They passed what was obviously the violent whitewater: a bottleneck stretch between vertical walls with a rock in the middle the size of an apartment building, the water boiling up against it and sweeping around in two vicious currents, creating massive downstream whirlpools and eddies. Beyond that the river leveled out, flowing between sandbars and talus slopes. With no floating reference point, it was hard to judge how fast the water was moving. He wondered if the bodies would rise or sink, or perhaps get caught up on underwater rocks.

“What’s the water temperature?” he asked the pilot.

“Let me ask.” A moment later the pilot said, “About fifty-five degrees.”

That’ll kill them even if the rapids don’t, thought Fordyce.

Still he searched, more out of a sense of professional thoroughness than anything else. The river finally broadened, the water growing sluggish. He could see a small cluster of lights downstream.

“What’s that?” he asked.

The pilot banked slowly as the river made a turn. “The town of Cochiti Lake.”

Now the top of the lake came into view. It was a long, narrow lake, evidently formed from damming up the river.

“I don’t think there’s anything more we can do along here,” said Fordyce. “The others can continue their search for the bodies. Take me back to Los Alamos.”

“Yes, sir.”

The chopper banked again and rose, gaining altitude and accelerating as it headed northward. Fordyce felt in his gut that Gideon and the woman must be dead. No one could have survived those rapids.

He wondered if it was even necessary to interview Chu or the other security officers. The idea that someone had planted those emails to frame Crew was ridiculous and well-nigh impossible. It would have to have been an inside job, involving at least one top security officer—and to what end? Why even frame him?

But still he felt uneasy. Leaving a bunch of incriminating emails on a classified work computer was not the most intelligent move a terrorist could make. It was, in fact, stupid. And Crew had been anything but stupid.

Gideon Crew crawled up onto the sandbar, numb with cold, bruised and bleeding and aching from the ride through the rapids and his long struggle to reach the shore.

He sat up and clasped his hands around his knees, coughing and shivering and fighting to regain his breath. He’d lost both the stage gun and the real gun somewhere in the rapids. Upstream, he could hear the faint roar of rapids, and he made out the dull line of whitewater where the canyon opened up. He was sitting on a low sandbar that curved for hundreds of yards along an inside bend of the river. Before him the river ran sluggishly, the moon dimpling its moving surface.

Both upstream and downstream he could see the lights of helicopters, see the downward play of spotlights in the darkness. He had to get out of the open and under cover.

He managed to rise unsteadily to his feet. Where was Alida? Had she survived? This was too terrible—this was never part of the plan. He’d sucked an innocent woman into his problem, just as he had with Orchid, back in New York. And now, thanks to him, Alida might be dead.

“Alida!” he practically screamed.

His eye roamed the sweep of sand, shining in the moonlight. Then he saw a dark shape lying partway out of the water, one hand held crookedly over its head, frozen in place.

“Oh no!” he cried, stumbling forward. But as he approached he saw it was twisted, misshapen—a driftwood log.

He sank down on it, gasping for breath, immeasurably relieved.

The closest chopper was working its way down the river toward him—and he abruptly realized he was leaving telltale footprints in the sand. With a muffled curse, he picked up a branch and worked his way back, erasing his prints with it. The effort warmed him a little. He crossed the sandbar, still sweeping, waded across a side channel, reached the far side, and dove into a thicket of salt cedars just as the chopper roared overhead, its blinding searchlight moving back and forth.

Even after it had passed by he lay in the darkness, thinking. He couldn’t leave this stretch of river until he found Alida. This was where the fast water slowed into a broad, sluggish flow, and this was where—if she were still alive—she would probably reach shore.

Another chopper roared overhead, shaking the bushes he was hiding in, and he covered his face from the flying sand.

He crawled out and peered up and down the river again, but could see nothing. There was a cutbank on the far side: if she was anywhere, she’d have to be on this side of the river. He began creeping through the heavy brush, trying to stay silent.

Suddenly he heard crackling behind him, and a heavy hand clapped onto his shoulder. With a shout he turned.

“Quiet!” came the whispered reply.

“Alida! Oh my God, I thought—”

“Shhhh!” She seized his hand and dragged him deeper into the bushes as another chopper swept toward them. They lay low as the backwash rattled the scrub.

“We’ve got to get away from the river,” she whispered, pulling him to his feet and scooting through the brush up a dry creek. Gideon was disconcerted to find her in better shape than he was. He gasped for breath as they climbed a boulder-strewn wash, which grew progressively narrower and steeper.