“That puts a whole new spin on things,” said Hammersmith.

“The real question,” said Gideon, “is the form that craziness took. Why would he claim they were beaming rays into his head? Experimenting on him?”

“I’m afraid that’s a classic symptom of schizophrenia,” said Hammersmith.

“Yes, but he didn’t have schizophrenia. And why would he say his landlord and landlady were government agents?”

Fordyce raised his head and looked at Gideon. “You don’t think that poor fuck of a landlord was a government agent—do you?”

“No. But I wonder why he kept talking about experiments, why he denied having lived in the apartment. It doesn’t make sense.”

Fordyce shook his head. “I’m afraid it’s starting to make sense to me. A lot of sense.”

“How so?” Gideon asked.

“Put it together yourself. The guy works at Los Alamos. Has a top-secret security clearance. Designs nuclear bombs. Converts to Islam. Disappears for two months. Next thing, he shows up irradiated in New York City.”

“So?”

“So the son of a bitch joined a jihad! With his help, they got their hands on a nuclear core. They mishandled it just like that Demon Core you mentioned, and Chalker got his ass irradiated.”

“Chalker wasn’t a radical,” Gideon said. “He was quiet. He kept his religion to himself.”

Fordyce laughed bitterly. “It’s always the quiet ones.”

There was a silence in the entire van. Everyone was listening intently now. Gideon felt a growing sense of horror: what Fordyce said had the ring of truth. The more he thought about it, the more he realized the man was probably right. Chalker had the personality for it; he was exactly the kind of insecure, confused person who would find his calling in jihad. And there was no other way to explain the intense dose of gamma rays he must have been exposed to, to make him so very hot.

“We’d better face it,” said Fordyce as the van slowed. “The ultimate nightmare has come true. Islamic terrorists have got themselves a nuke.”

The van doors opened into an underground, garage-like space, where they were herded through a tunnel of plastic. To Gideon, who knew their radiation exposure was probably secondary and fairly minor, it seemed like overkill, more designed to follow some bureaucratic protocol than anything else.

They were shunted into a high-tech waiting area, all chrome and porcelain and stainless steel, with monitors and computer displays winking softly from all angles. Everything was new and had obviously never been used before. They were separated by sex, stripped, given three sets of showers, examined thoroughly, asked to undergo blood work, given shots, provided with clean clothes, tested again, and then finally allowed to emerge into a second waiting area.

It was an amazing subterranean facility, brand new and state of the art, clearly built after 9/11 to handle a radiological terrorist attack in the city. Gideon recognized various kinds of radiation testing and decontamination equipment, far more advanced than even what they had at Los Alamos. As extraordinary as the place was, he was not surprised: New York City would certainly need a major decontamination center like this.

A scientist entered the waiting room, smiling and wearing a normal white lab coat. He was the first person they’d had contact with who was not in a radiation or hazmat suit. He was accompanied by a small, gloomy man in a dark suit whose size belied an air of command. Gideon recognized him immediately: Myron Dart, who had been deputy director of Los Alamos when Gideon first arrived at the lab. Dart had been appointed from Los Alamos to government service of some kind. Gideon hadn’t known him well, but Dart had always seemed competent and fair. Gideon wondered how he’d handle this emergency.

The cheerful scientist spoke first. “I’m Dr. Berk and you’re all now clean,” he said, beaming at them as if they had passed a final exam. “We’re going to have individual counseling, and then you’ll be free to resume your lives.”

“How bad was the exposure?” Hammersmith asked.

“Very minor. The counselor will discuss with each person his or her actual exposure readings. The hostage taker’s radiation exposure occurred elsewhere, not on site, and radiation exposure isn’t like the flu. You can’t catch it from someone else.”

Now Dart stepped forward. He was older than Gideon remembered, his face long and narrow, shoulders sloped. His dress was impeccable as usual: gray suit with an understated pinstripe, beautifully cut, the lavender silk tie giving him an incongruously fashionable look. He carried with him a quiet air of self-assurance. “My name is Dr. Myron Dart, and I’m commander of the Nuclear Emergency Support Team. There’s one very important thing I need to impress on all of you.” Dart placed his hands behind his back while his gray eyes perused the group, slowly and deliberately, as if he were about to speak to each person individually. “So far, the news that this was a radiological incident hasn’t leaked out. You can imagine the panic if it were to do so. Each and every one of you must keep absolutely quiet about what happened today. There are only two words you need to know: no and comment. That goes for everyone who is going to ask you what happened, from reporters to family. And they will ask.”

He paused. “You will all be signing nondisclosure papers before your release. I’m afraid you won’t be released until you sign these papers. There are criminal and civil penalties for violating the terms of the nondisclosure, spelled out in the documents. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be, and I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Not a word was said. Dart himself had spoken mildly, but something about the very quietness of his voice told Gideon the guy wasn’t kidding.

“I apologize,” said Dart, “for the inconvenience and the scare. Fortunately, it appears the exposure for all of you was slight to none. I will now turn you over to the very competent hands of Dr. Berk. Good day.”

And he left.

The doctor consulted his clipboard. “Let’s see. We’re going to proceed alphabetically.” Now he was like a camp counselor. “Sergeant Adair and Officer Corley, please come with me?”

Gideon glanced around at the assembled group. The SWAT team member who had freaked out in the van was no longer with them, and he thought he could hear, faintly, somewhere in the bowels of that vast facility, the man screaming and threatening.

Suddenly the door opened and Myron Dart reentered, accompanied by Manuel Garza. Dart looked seriously put out. “Gideon Crew?” His eyes fastened on Gideon, and he fancied he saw recognition in those eyes.

Gideon rose.

Garza came over. “Let’s go.”

“But—”

“No discussion.”

Garza walked rapidly to the door, Gideon hurrying to keep up. As they passed Dart, the man looked at him with a cool smile. “You have interesting friends, Dr. Crew.”

During what promised to be a long crosstown ride to Little West 12th Street, in gridlock traffic, Garza said nothing, his eyes straight ahead, concentrating on driving. The nighttime streets of New York were their usual blaze of light, action, noise, and bustle. Gideon could feel the man’s dislike of him radiating from his face and body language. Gideon didn’t care. The silence let him prepare for what he was sure was going to be an unpleasant confrontation. He had a pretty good idea of what Glinn would want now.

When Gideon was twelve, he had witnessed his father gunned down by FBI snipers. His father had been a civilian cryptologist working for INSCOM, the United States Army Intelligence and Security Command, and had been involved with the group that developed codes. The Soviets broke one of those codes only four months after it was introduced, and twenty-six operatives and double agents had been rolled up in a single night, all tortured and killed. It was one of the worst intelligence disasters of the Cold War. They had said it was his father’s fault. His father had always suffered from depression, and under the pressure of the accusations and investigations he broke down, took a hostage, and was shot and killed in the doorway of Arlington Hall Station—after he had surrendered.