The wearisome debate continued within her.

Yes, no…

The truth…What's the truth?

When the officials were seated, a general from New Jersey made a few comments and introduced a poised, handsome man in a dark blue uniform. General Roger Poulin, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, rose and walked to the microphone.

Poulin nodded to his presenter and then to those in the room. In a deep voice he said, "Generals, distinguished officials from the Departments of Defense and State and the City of New York, fellow servicemen and -women and guests…I'm delighted to welcome you here today to this celebration honoring eighteen brave individuals, people who have risked their lives and displayed their willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice to preserve the freedom of our country and carry the cause of democracy throughout the globe."

Applause erupted and the guests rose to their feet.

The noise died down and General Poulin began his speech. Lucy Richter listened at first but her attention soon faded. She was looking at the civilians in the room-the family members and guests of the soldiers. People like her father and mother and husband and aunt, the spouses, the children, the parents and grandparents, the friends.

These people would leave after the ceremony, go to their jobs or their homes. They'd get back to the simple business of making their way in the world one day, one hour, one minute at a time.

Her military demeanor would not, of course, let her smile but Lucy Richter could feel her face relaxing and the tension in her shoulders vanish like the bitter fog carried away on a hot wind. The anger, the depression, the denial-everything that Kathryn Dance had told her to look for-suddenly were gone.

She closed her eyes momentarily and then turned her attention back to the man who was, after the president of the United States, her senior commander, understanding clearly now that, whatever else happened in her life, her decision had been made and she was content.

Charles Hale was in the men's room of a small coffee shop not far from the HUD building. In a filthy stall he extracted a trash bag from beneath his undershirt. He stripped off the military uniform and put on jeans, sweats, gloves and a jacket, which he'd just bought. He stuffed the uniform, coat and hat inside, keeping the gun. He took the battery and chip out of his phone and added them to the bag. Then, waiting until the restroom was empty, he stuffed it into the trash, left the coffee shop and walked outside.

On the street again, he bought a prepaid mobile phone with cash and wandered along the shadowy sidewalk until he was three blocks from HUD. From this vantage point he had a narrow view of the back of the building and the alley where the first "victim" of the Watchmaker had been found. He could just make out a sliver of the sixth-floor window of the conference room where the ceremonies were going on.

The jacket was thin and he supposed he should be cold, but in the excitement of the moment he felt no discomfort. He looked at his digital wristwatch, which was synchronized to the timers in the bomb detonators.

The time was 12:14:19. The ceremony had been under way since noon. With bombs, he'd learned in his exhaustive research, you always gave people the chance to settle in, for stragglers to arrive, for guards to grow lax.

12:14:29.

One nice aspect of these particular bombs, he reflected, something fortuitous, was that Joanne the florist had filled the vases with hundreds of tiny glass marbles. Anybody not killed or badly injured by the explosives themselves would be riddled with these pellets of glass.

12:14:44.

Hale found himself leaning forward, his weight on the balls of his feet. There was always the possibility that something would go wrong-that security would make a last-minute sweep for explosives or that somebody had seen him on the video camera entering the building then leaving suspiciously after a short period of time.

12:14:52.

Still, the risk of failure made the victory against boredom that much sweeter. His eyes were riveted on the alleyway behind the HUD building.

12:14:55.

12:14:56.

12:14:57.

12:14:58.

12:14:59.

12:15:00

Silently a huge fist of flame and debris shot out of the conference room window. A half second later came the stunning sound of the explosion itself.

Voices around him. "Oh, my God. What-?"

Screams.

"Look, there! What's that?"

"God, no!"

"Call nine-one-one! Somebody…"

Pedestrians were clustering on the sidewalk, staring.

"A bomb? An airplane?"

Concern on his face, Hale shook his head, lingering for a moment to savor the success. The explosion seemed bigger than he'd anticipated; the fatalities would be greater than Charlotte and Bud had hoped. It was hard to see how anybody could have survived.

He turned slowly and continued up the street, where he descended once more into the subway station and took the next train uptown. He emerged at the station and headed toward the Allertons' hotel, where he'd pick up the rest of his payment.

Charles Hale was satisfied. He'd staved off boredom and had earned some good money.

Most important, though, was the breathtaking elegance of what he'd done. He'd created a plan that had worked perfectly-like clockwork, he thought, enjoying the self-conscious simile.

"Oh, thank you," Charlotte whispered, speaking both to Jesus and to the man who'd made their mission a success.

She was sitting forward, staring at the TV. The special news report about the evacuation of the Metropolitan Museum and the halting of public transportation in the area had been replaced by a different story-the bombing at the HUD building. Charlotte squeezed her husband's hand. Bud leaned over and kissed her. He smiled like a young boy.

The news anchorwoman was grim-despite her restrained pleasure at being on duty when such a big story broke-as she gave what details there were: A bomb had gone off within the Housing and Urban Development building in lower Manhattan, where a number of senior government and military officials had been attending a ceremony. An undersecretary of state and the head of the Joint Chiefs were present. The cameras showed smoke pouring from the windows of a conference room. The important detail-the casualty count-had not come in yet, though at least fifty people were in the room where the bomb detonated.

A talking head popped up on the screen; his complete lack of knowledge of the event didn't stop him from drawing the conclusion that this was the job of fundamentalist Islamic terrorists.

They'd soon know differently.

"Look, honey, we did it!" Charlotte called to her daughter, who had remained in the bedroom, lost in a book. (That satanic Harry Potter. Charlotte had thrown out two of them. Where on earth had the girl gotten another copy?)

The girl gave an exasperated sigh and returned to the book.

Charlotte was momentarily furious. She wanted to storm into the bedroom and slap the girl's face as hard as she could. They'd just won a spectacular victory and the girl was showing nothing but disrespect. Bud had asked several times if he could take a hickory stick to the girl's bare butt. Charlotte had demurred but she was now wondering if maybe it wasn't such a bad idea.

Still, her anger faded when she thought of their victory today. She stood up. "We better leave." She shut the TV off and continued packing a suitcase. Bud walked into the bedroom to do the same. They were going to drive to Philadelphia, where they'd get a plane back to St. Louis-Duncan had told them to avoid the New York airports afterward. They'd then return to the backwoods of Missouri and go underground again-waiting for the next opportunity to further their cause.