It was midnight as they entered EES headquarters. The hushed confines seemed to swallow Gideon in cool white spaces. Even at the late hour, technicians moved about among the strange models, layouts, and tables covered with shrouded and mysterious equipment. He followed Garza to the elevator, which delivered them at a glacial pace to the top floor. A moment later he was standing in the same Zen-like conference room, Glinn seated in his wheelchair at the head of the vast bubinga wood table. The window he had stood by earlier that day now had its blinds drawn.

Gideon felt exhausted, gutted and cleaned like a fish. He was surprised and a little irritated to find Glinn uncharacteristically animated.

“Coffee?” Glinn asked. His good eye was fairly sparkling.

“Yes.” Gideon collapsed into a chair.

Garza left with a frown, and returned with a mug. Gideon dumped in cream and sugar and drank it down like a glass of water.

“I have good news and bad news,” said Glinn.

Gideon waited.

“The good news is that your exposure to radiation was exceedingly minor. According to the tables, it will increase your chances of dying from cancer by less than one percent over the next twenty years.”

Gideon had to laugh at the irony of this. His voice echoed in the empty room. No one else joined in.

“The bad news is that we suddenly face a national emergency of the highest order. Reed Chalker was irradiated in what seems to have been a criticality event involving a mass of fissile material. He was affected by a combination of alpha particles and gamma rays from a source that appears to be highly enriched, bomb-grade U-235. The dose was in the range of eighty grays, or eight thousand rads. A massive, massive dose.”

Gideon sat up. That was astonishing.

“Yes. The amount of fissile material capable of causing such an event would be at least ten kilograms. Which just happens to be more than enough uranium for a substantial nuclear weapon.”

Gideon took this in. It was worse than he had imagined.

Glinn paused, then went on. “It seems clear that Chalker was involved in preparing a terrorist attack with a nuclear device. During these preparations, something went wrong and the uranium went critical. Chalker was irradiated. It also appears likely to our experts that the remaining terrorists spirited off the bomb, leaving Chalker to die. But he didn’t die right away—radiation poisoning doesn’t work like that. He went insane and in his confusion took hostages. And here we are.”

“Have you found where he was preparing the bomb?”

“That’s the highest priority now. It can’t be too far from his apartment in Sunnyside, because it seems he returned there on foot. We’re flying radiation monitors over the city and any moment we’ll have a hit, since a criticality event like this would leave a minor plume of radiation—with a characteristic signature.”

Glinn almost rubbed his hands together. “We’re in on the ground floor, Gideon. You were there. You knew Chalker—”

“No,” said Gideon. Now it was time to get up. He rose.

“Hear me out. You’re the man for this job, no doubt about it. This isn’t undercover. You’ll go in as yourself—”

“I said no.”

“You’ll partner with Fordyce. It is an unavoidable requirement of the assignment, imposed by the National Nuclear Security Administration. But you’ll be given a broad investigative mandate.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You only need to pretend to work with Fordyce. In reality you’ll be a lone operator, beholden to no one, working outside the normal rules of law enforcement.”

“I already did what you wanted,” said Gideon. “In case you didn’t notice, I fucked it up and three people were shot. And now I’m going home.”

“You didn’t make a mistake and you can’t go home. We’ve got days, maybe hours. Gideon—millions of lives are at stake. Here’s the address you need to go to first.” He shoved a piece of paper at Gideon. “Now get going, Fordyce is expecting you.”

“Fuck you. I really mean that. Fuck you.”

“You’ve got to hurry. There’s no time.” Glinn paused. “Don’t you think you should do something more worthwhile with the months you have left than just go fishing?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. All that talk of my dying, of my terminal disease. You’re the biggest bullshit artist I’ve ever met—for all I know, this could just be another patented Eli Glinn lie. How do I know those X-rays were mine, anyway? The name was cut out.”

Glinn shook his head. “In your heart you know I’m telling the truth.”

Gideon flushed with anger. “Look. What could I possibly do to help? They’ve got the NYPD, FBI, this NEST group, ATF, CIA, and I’m sure any number of black agencies in on this. I’m telling you, I’m going home.”

“That is precisely the problem.” Glinn raised his voice, angry himself. His crippled claw smacked the tabletop. “The response is over the top. It’s so unwieldy that our psychoengineering calculations show they’ll never stop the attack. It’ll be investigative gridlock.”

“Psychoengineering calculations,” Gideon repeated sarcastically. “What a crock.” He finally started for the door. Garza blocked his path with a faint curl of contempt on his lips.

“Get out of my way.”

There was a brief standoff, then Glinn said, “Manuel, let him go.”

Garza stepped aside with insolent slowness.

“When you go out on the street,” said Glinn, “do me one favor: look at the faces of the people around you and think about how their lives are going to change. Forever.”

Gideon didn’t even wait to hear the rest. He rushed out the door, crushed his finger against the elevator button, and took it down to the first floor, cursing its slowness. When the doors opened he ran across the vast workroom, through the sets of doors, and down the hall; the front door opened electronically as he approached.

Once outside, he jogged down the street to a boutique hotel, where a line of cabs were standing. Screw his luggage. He would go to the airport, get back to New Mexico, hole up in his cabin until this whole thing was over. He had done enough damage. He grasped the handle of the cab and opened the door, hesitating a moment as he looked at the crowds of trendy people going in and out of the hotel. He recalled Glinn’s advice. He found the people he saw repulsive. He didn’t care how their lives might change. Let them all die. He might well be living with death; why not them, too?

That was his answer to Glinn.

Suddenly he felt himself shoved aside and a drunk man in a tuxedo barged past him, stealing his cab. The man slammed the door, leaned out the window with a grin of triumph, exhaling martini fumes. “Sorry, pal, he who hesitates… Have a nice trip back to Des Moines.”

With a raucous laugh from its passenger, the cab pulled away and Gideon stood there, shocked.

How their lives are going to change. Glinn’s words echoed again in his mind. Was this world, those people, that man, worth saving? Somehow, the very loutishness of the man hit home in a way no random kindness from a stranger would have. The man would wake up the next morning and no doubt regale his friends on the trading floor about the out-of-town dickhead who didn’t know how to commandeer a New York City cab. Good. Fuck him. More proof they were not worth saving. Gideon would retreat to his cabin in the Jemez Mountains and let these assholes fend for themselves…

But as this thought ran through his mind, he faltered. Who was he to judge? The world was made up of all kinds of people. If he fled to his cabin and New York was taken out by a nuke, where would that leave him? Was it his responsibility? No. But by running away, he would have still put himself lower than that tuxedoed scumbag by orders of magnitude.

Whether he had eleven months or fifty years, it would be a long and lonely space of time in which he would never, ever forgive himself.