"But not a flag worshipper. He cared about the principles, not the symbol."

"That's what patriotism means. The others are just fetishists."

"Did you have a lot of friends?"

"Enough."

"Did you have a lot of fights?"

"A few. And you've about hit the limit on my patience."

Norridge smiled. "Well, Agent Cooper, you were academy trained. Your childhood is essentially what we try to replicate. We turn up the intensity, of course, and we also provide access to programs to develop their gifts, resources your father couldn't have dreamed of. But. You were lonely. Isolated. Often punished for being what you were. You never had the opportunity to learn to trust other abnorms, and because you so often had to defend yourself for being one, you were unlikely to seek them out. You didn't have many friends and lived in a constantly shifting environment, which means you placed special value on the one rock in your world-your father. He was a military man, so concepts like duty and loyalty came easily to you. You grew up learning all the lessons we teach here. You even ended up working for the government, as the majority of our graduates do."

Cooper fought an urge to lean over and bang Director Norridge's face into the desk three or four times. It wasn't the things he was saying about Cooper's life, all of which were true, and none of which had stung him for years. It was the condescension, and worse, the bullying gleefulness of the man. Norridge didn't just want to make his point. Like the blond boy on the playground, he wanted to dominate.

"You still haven't answered my question. Why?"

"Surely you know."

"Indulge me," he said.

Norridge gave a tip of his head to acknowledge the returned volley. "The gifts of the vast majority of abnorms have no significant value. However, a rare handful have abilities that make them equivalent to the greatest geniuses of our history. Individually, that is reason enough to harness their power. However, the real concern is not the individual. It is the group. You, for example. What would happen if I were to attack you?"

Cooper smiled. "I wouldn't recommend it."

"What about someone more skilled? A boxer, or a martial artist?"

"Training can teach you how to defend yourself. But unless you were very, very good, your body would still reveal what you were about to do. That makes it easy for me to avoid."

"I see. And what about, say, three martial artists?"

"They'd win." Cooper shrugged. "Too many attacks to track."

Norridge nodded. Then he said, quietly, "And what about twenty totally average, out-of-shape, slightly overweight adults?"

Cooper narrowed his eyes- He said "our history" and "their power." He doesn't see abnorms as human.

Despite that, he knows us so well he could identify your gift. That knowledge has been applied to every facet of life here.

He dissected your past and the sensitive spots in it based just on this conversation.

He could have ill.u.s.trated this current point a hundred different ways. But he chose combat as a metaphor.

-and said, "I'd lose."

"Precisely. And we must always hold that advantage. It's the only way. The gifted cannot be allowed to band together. So from their youth we teach them that they cannot trust one another. That other abnorms are weak, cruel, and small. Their only comfort comes from a single normal figure, a mentor like the woman you heard earlier. And they learn core values like obedience and patriotism. In that way, we protect humanity." Norridge paused, then smiled toothily. It was a strange expression, knowing. It looked like given the chance, the man might take a bite out of him. "Does that make sense?"

"Yes," Cooper said. "I understand you now."

Norridge c.o.c.ked his head. Whether he caught the real meaning or not, he'd at least caught the tone. "Forgive me. Getting me started can be dangerous."

No kidding.

"I should mention the tangible benefits, too. Academy graduates have made enormous breakthroughs in chemistry, mathematics, engineering, medicine-all of it government controlled. That recording device I mentioned? The nano-technology is the work of a former pupil. All the latest military equipment is designed by abnorms. The computer systems that connect us. Even the new stock market, which is, ironically, immune to abnorm manipulation.

"All these things come from academy graduates. And thanks to our work, all are managed and controlled by the US government. Surely you can agree that as a nation-as a people-we can't afford another Erik Epstein?"

Which people, doc? Cooper could feel a scream boiling inside of him, a rage that he very much wanted to give in to. Everything here was worse than he had imagined.

No. Be honest. You never let yourself imagine it. Not really.

Still, now that he knew, what could he do about it? Kill the director, then the staff? Tear down the walls and blow up the dormitories? Lead the children like Moses out of Egypt?

It was either that or get the h.e.l.l out of here. He stood.

Norridge looked surprised. "Are you satisfied, then?"

"Not even close." But if he stayed another minute he was going to explode, so he stalked out of the office, down the polished halls, past the narrow windows with their rocky evergreen vistas. Thinking, This cannot be the way.

And, John Smith was raised in an academy. Not this one, but they'll all be the same, and there will be a Norridge heading all of them. An administrator who holds all the power, a skilled manipulator who understands and hates his pupils.

John Smith was raised in an academy.

John Smith was at war from his earliest days.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

"Ground one?"

"We're go."

"Ground two?"

"Go."

"Three?"

"Freezing my t.i.ts off, but go." Luisa, bringing her usual flair.

"Crow's nest?"

"Two positions, overlapping sight lines. Go."

"G.o.d?"

"The view from on high is divine, my son." Behind the voice came the buzz of rotors. At the elevation the airship was flying, it was nothing but a darker gray spot against a bright gray sky. "G.o.d is good."

Cooper smiled and pressed the transmit b.u.t.ton. "Peace be with you."

"And also with you. But woe betide the sorry s.h.i.tbird who tries to run, lest we hurl a thunderbolt."

"Amen." He clicked off and gazed down through the double-thick gla.s.s at the meet site.

Today looked pretty much like yesterday, which was one of those things you could say about a lot of DC days between November and March. The sunlight was weak tea, and gusts of winds tugged at the coats of powerbrokers, the scarves of businesswomen.

Ground two was the FedEx truck. It was parked on G Street, on the northwest corner. The back door was up, and an undercover agent was loading boxes on a dolly, checking each one against a manifest. Behind a makeshift shelf, four more agents were jammed together out of sight. It was a tight, uncomfortable s.p.a.ce, but even so, they had it better than ground one; the utility van had been parked on 12th all night.

Cooper had done recon in those things before. They were dark and uncomfortable, boiling in the summer and frigid in the winter. Movement had to be restricted to the absolute minimum, and the air always reeked of urine from the quart jars they used. One time a junior agent had broken a jar, and after six scorching hours, the team had been ready to forget the target and beat the h.e.l.l out of him.

11:30. The meet was set for noon. Good planning on the bad guys' part: lunchtime, and the corner below would be even busier as everyone in the surrounding buildings scurried from their cubicles.

"Camera feed good?"

"Better than." Bobby Quinn sat at a polished wood table twenty feet long. He'd co-opted the law firm's presentation system for his mobile headquarters, and the air in front of him shimmered with ghost images, video feeds from various angles. "The intersection is wired like a tri-d studio."

"Show me the transmitter."

Quinn gestured, and a map of the city streets glowed. "Green dot is this." Quinn tossed him the stamp drive. It looked perfectly normal, down to the half-rubbed-out logo on the side. Cooper pocketed it. His partner continued. "The red dot is Vasquez, the man himself."

"How'd you wire him?"

"His colon," Quinn deadpanned. Cooper glanced over sharply, but his partner continued. "Shiny newtech, just in from R&D. Some academy bright boy came up with a tracker in a gelcap. Enzyme-bonds to the lining of the large intestine."

"Wow. Is he-is it-"

"No. Bonds dissolve in about a week, and out it goes with the rest of the junk mail."

"Wow," Cooper repeated.

"Gives new meaning to the phrase 'stay on his a.s.s.'"

"Been waiting to use that?"

"Since the moment they handed me the gelcap." Quinn looked up and smiled. "Learn anything useful yesterday?"

"Yeah. I learned Smith has a right to be p.i.s.sed off."

"Hey, hey, whoa." Quinn dropped his voice. "d.i.c.kinson would flip if he heard you say that."

"Screw Roger d.i.c.kinson."

"Yeah, well, you know he'd be happy to screw you. So be careful." Quinn leaned back. "What's really going on?"

Cooper thought of yesterday afternoon, the relief he'd felt as he hit the road. The Monongahela National Forest blurring around him, huddled trees and ragged mountains, prefab housing dropped at random.

I MISS MY SON, the pale woman's placard had read.

"They aren't schools, Bobby. They're brainwashing centers."

"Come on-"

"I'm not being poetic. That's literally what they are. I mean, I'd heard things, we all have, but I didn't believe it. Who could treat children this way?" Cooper shook his head. "Turns out the answer is, we can."

"We?"

"They're government facilities. DAR facilities."

"But not Equitable Services."

"Close enough."

"It's not 'close enough.'" Quinn's voice sharp. "You are not personally responsible for the actions of an entire agency."

"See, that's where you're wrong. We all-"

"Do you believe that Alex Vasquez was trying to make the world a better place?"

"What?"

"Do you believe that Alex Vasquez-"

"No."

"Do you believe that John Smith is trying to make the world a better place?"

"No."

"Do you believe that he is responsible for killing a whole bunch of people?"

"Yes."

"Innocent people?"

"Yes."

"Children?"

"Yes."

"Then let's go get him. That is what we do. We take down bad people who hurt good people. Preferably before they hurt the good people. That's our responsibility. After that," Quinn said, "we go out for beer. Which you buy. That's your responsibility."