Top laid a big hand on his shoulder, gave it a squeeze. "Believe me, Skip, you don't want to go to sleep tonight with this in your head and no one to talk to."

Ollie just stood there with his eyes glistening and his fists balled into knots.

Bunny said, "I ain't ever gonna sleep again."

Chapter Forty-Five.

The DMS Warehouse, Baltimore / Tuesday, June 30; 8:51 P.M.

A CHOPPER TOOK us back to the warehouse in Baltimore. On the way Grace told us that quarters had been set aside for each of us. "It's not much," she said over the whine of the rotor, "we had small offices converted into bedrooms. Mr. Church has asked that you and your men go to your quarters and wait until called for. He doesn't want any of you talking to other DMS personnel until he's had a chance to meet with you himself. Don't worry, you're not under suspicion, it's just that a lot of the DMS staff are new and some have not been informed about the nature of this crisis. Security is paramount."

We didn't like it but we all understood and we flew the rest of the way in silence. I noticed that Top was pretending to sleep but was actually studying Ollie, who had turned stiffly away from Courtland and me and was staring out the window. When Top noticed me watching him, he smiled and closed his eyes. After that he really did look like he was sleeping, but I didn't believe it.

IT WAS NEARLY dark when we landed. A guard met me as I debarked and took me to Church's office. His face showed little emotion, and he sure as h.e.l.l didn't rush up to embrace me, but I could see his eyes behind the tinted lenses of his gla.s.ses as he gave me a thorough up-and-down appraisal. He waved me to a chair and then sat down behind his desk; and the guard poured me a cup of coffee before he left.

"Grace said that there were no injuries sustained by Echo Team."

I almost said, "Nothing that will show," but it was trite. He seemed to guess my thought, though, and nodded.

"And you managed to secure a prisoner."

I said nothing. If he knew about Ollie-and I'm sure he did-he left it off the table.

"What's going to happen with those kids?"

"I don't know. They've all been admitted to the hospital with FBI protection. The Bureau's taken over the problem of identifying them. Some of the children are too traumatized to even give their names. None of them remember how they were taken. A few had recent burns on their skin consistent with liquid Tasers, so we can a.s.sume they were taken unawares, perhaps randomly."

"Experimenting on kids puts a whole new spin on this thing."

"Yes," he said, "it does, and I want to hear your full report on what happened today, Captain, but first I want your a.s.sessment of the crab plant. When is the absolute soonest you can hit it?"

"There's maybe a slim chance that the hostiles in the other plant won't know about the hit we just did. The cell lines were jammed, right? And you cut the landlines, right? It's late in the day," I said. "Communication between the cells would necessarily be at a minimum anyway. I think we have to hit it by noon tomorrow."

"Why not right now? We have sufficient firepower to do a hard entry."

I shook my head. "There are three reasons why that's not going to happen tonight. First, you need to interrogate your prisoner. Second, the meat plant was full of kids. Who the h.e.l.l knows how many civilians are in the crab plant. If you go in all John Wayne then you could get a lot of innocent people killed."

"And the third reason?"

"Because that plant belongs to Echo Team and I don't want anyone else jumping our action. Look, you hired us on to be your first team. Well, you got what you paid for. I know you had to be here watching the feeds from the helmet cams. So you know what we went through in there, and you know how tight my guys are. Alpha Team may be DMS elite or some s.h.i.t but they were a half-step off getting to first base. They should have been in there faster. I shouldn't have had to call them once things got hot."

"Grace Courtland and Gus Dietrich are superb agents. As good as anyone on Echo Team," Church said. "At one point all of them were, but since St. Michael's they've been showing signs of stress disorder. In the last two days their team drills are down by fourteen percent and their live ammunition drills show hesitation. None of that was there before St. Michael's."

Now I understood. I put my cup down and leaned my elbows on his desk. "So we understand each other here?"

"If what you saw in Delaware has taught us anything it's that we are losing ground on this thing. I want the crab plant hit tonight. Now."

"No way. My team needs to rest. You talk about reduction in combat efficiency, well, you put a top team into a critical situation without time to rest then you don't have a top team anymore. You have tired men who will be off their game. Going right back out would get them killed. Twelve hours to sleep and plan the hit."

"Two hours' sleep and they debrief in the helo."

After a minute, I said, "I see the science team. Then we go in three hours. That's not negotiable. I won't lead my team to a slaughter. I'll go in alone before I do that."

For a moment it looked like he was considering that as a suggestion. Then he nodded.

"Okay." He took a vanilla wafer and gestured to the plate. "Have one."

I had an Oreo. "Do you want reconnaissance or scorched-earth?"

"My science division needs data. Computers, lab equipment, pathogen samples we need to leave the place intact."

"What kind of backup can we expect?"

"The works. Alpha Team will be on deck and they'll be first in if you need them; F-18s in the air, helo support for extraction if it gets hot. Special Forces strike teams can be inside in ten minutes; and the National Guard is on standby. If it turns into a firefight we have the edge. If the perimeter is breached we'll take a closer look at the scorched-earth option."

He didn't have to explain that if there was a containment breach and my team was inside then we'd be flash-fried along with the hostiles. And even though that's what I would order myself it didn't make me feel any better about it.

"What's going on with the prisoner? I thought you'd be interrogating him by now."

"That would be nice," he agreed, "but he has two bullets in his chest cavity. He's in surgery. They'll page me the moment he's stabilized enough to answer questions."

"And what if the control disease kicks in before then?"

"Then there will be that much more pressure on you to bring me another prisoner when you hit the crab plant."

"Swell." I finished my coffee. "Okay, take me to your mad scientists."

Chapter Forty-Six.

The DMS Warehouse, Baltimore / Tuesday, June 30; 9:20 P.M.

AS HE LED me to the labs, Church said. "Dr. Sanchez has agreed, conditionally, to help us through the current crisis."

"What are his conditions?"

"He'll be here as long as you are. Apparently he thinks you need a minder." He appeared amused. "Major Courtland is bringing him up to speed on everything."

"Rudy's not a fighter."

"We all serve according to our nature, Captain. Besides, your friend may be tougher than you know."

"I didn't say he wasn't tough. I just don't want to see you put a gun in his hand."

"Noted."

We entered a huge loading dock that had been newly enclosed by cinderblock, and the smell of limestone and concrete hung thick in the damp air. There was a row of oversized trailer homes of the kind used as temporary offices on construction sites. As we pa.s.sed each, Church threw out a single identifying word. Cryptography. Surveillance. Operations. Computers.

We pa.s.sed one whose door was marked with a TWELVE in black block letters, and Church made no comment about this one. There were four armed guards outside, two facing out, two facing the unit's only door, and a tripod-mounted.50 stood behind a half-circle of sandbags, its wicked black mouth pointing at the trailer door. I slowed for a moment, frowning, feeling the tension that was screaming in the air, and I felt a chill like an icy hand close around the back of my neck.

"d.a.m.n," I breathed. "You have more of them in there?"

"Among other things, yes," he said softly. "It's also our surgical suite, and that's where our prisoner is. But to answer your question, we have a total of six."

"Like Javad?"

Church's face seemed to harden as he said, "The six walkers were all from St. Michael's. One doctor, three civilians, two DMS agents."

"My G.o.d!"

"This evening I'm having three of them sent to our Brooklyn facility for study. The others will remain here."

"For study? But you're talking about your own people."

"They're dead, Captain."

"Church, I-"

"They're dead."

Chapter Forty-Seven.

Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / June 30 "WHO WAS ON the phone?" Gault asked as he came out of the bathroom, a plush crimson robe cinched around him. "Was it Amirah?"

Toys handed him a cup of coffee on a china saucer. "No, it was the Yank again."

"What did he want? No-let me guess. The Americans finally raided the crab plant? b.l.o.o.d.y well time, too-"

"No," said Toys. "It seems they've raided the other facility. The one in Delaware. The meatpacking plant." He overp.r.o.nounced the word "meatpacking," enjoying the implications of each syllable.

Gault gave a bemused grunt and sipped his coffee. "That's unfortunate." He sat and chewed his lip for a few seconds. "What about the other plant? They were supposed to locate and infiltrate that first."

Toys sniffed. "Leave it to the U.S. government to always do the right thing at the wrong time. What's that phrase you like so much?"

" 'Ba.s.s ackwards.' "

Toys giggled. He loved to make Gault say it.

Gault finished his coffee and held his cup out for more. Toys refilled it and they sat down; Gault in the overstuffed chair by the French windows, Toys perched on the edge of the couch with his saucer on his knees. An iPod in a Bose speaker dock played Andy Williams singing Steve Allen, with Alvy West on alto sax. Meet Me Where They Play the Blues. Toys had been converting all of Gault's vast collection of historic big-band music to the iPod. Gault wondered where he found the time.

When the song ended, Toys said, "This alteration in the timetable is that going to change things? With El Musclehead, I mean."

"I've been working that through in my head. The timing is tricky. It really would have been better if they hit the crab plant first, and I can't understand why they didn't."

"Could they have decrypted the files from the warehouse? You said it was only a matter of time."

"A matter of very precise time. I paid good money to make sure that those files would not be cracked this quickly. The flashdrive was deliberately and very precisely damaged and the programs corrupted just enough to have given us at least forty hours more, even if they used the best equipment." He shook his head in frustration. "Dr. Renson and that other computer geek a.s.sured me that no technology exists to do it faster."

"What about MindReader?"

Gault waved that away. "MindReader's a myth. It's Internet folklore cooked up in some hacker's fantasies. They've been mythologizing about it since the nineties."

Toys was insistent. "What if it's real?"

Gault shrugged. "If it's real and the DMS has it, then, yes, they could scramble the timetable. But so what? At this point nothing they do can stop the program."

"You're the boss," Toys said in a wounded tone of voice that he knew needled Gault. "But it doesn't answer the question of what to do about the crab plant and whether this will spoil the whole operation."

"No," Gault said after some consideration, "no, it won't spoil the plan. Too many things are in motion now. But as far as the plant goes, it won't be a total disaster."

Toys studied his face and began to grin. "You're making that face. I know that face, What have you got cooking over there?"

Gault gave him an enigmatic smile. "Expect another call from the Yank sometime soon."

"Hm," purred Toys, "I'll be waiting with bated breath."

Chapter Forty-Eight.

The DMS Warehouse, Baltimore / Tuesday, June 30; 9:24 P.M.

THE INTERIOR OF the lab was somewhere between a scientist's wet dream and a G.o.d-awful mess, with heaps of books and spilled stacks of computer printouts, coffee cups everywhere and tables laden with every manner of diagnostic and forensics equipment. Gas chromatographs, portable DNA sequencers, and a lot of stuff I'd never seen before even at the State Crime Lab. Sci-fi stuff. Machines pinged and beeped and blipped and a dozen technicians in white lab coats pushed b.u.t.tons and made notes on clipboards and exchanged grim looks. In the middle of all of this was one desk, bigger than all the others, that was a shrine to pop culture geekiness, and though I pride myself on seldom showing surprise I went a little slack-jawed at what I saw. In an astonishing display of either the blackest humor on record or spectacular bad taste, there were horror magazines, bobble-heads of zombies from half a dozen movies, at least fifty zombie novels with dog-eared pages, and the entire collection of resin action figures of Marvel superheroes as decaying zombies. Seated like a happy school kid in the middle of this oasis of poor taste was a sloppy thirty-something Chinese guy with a bad haircut and a Hawaiian shirt under his lab coat. Church stood beside the desk-but not too close-and his immaculate suit and air of command seemed like a statement by comparison.

"Captain," Church said, "let me introduce Doctor Hu."

I stared. "Doctor Who? Are you s.h.i.tting me? This some kind of goofy code name or something?"