"Yes."

"Stay there, and don't open the door unless you hear my voice. Do you understand?"

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"I'll be there in a minute. Just wait for me." I hang up and look over my shoulder. The cop who was taking my statement is busy talking to somebody else.

I step out into the sunlight, take off the yellow jacket, and hand it to one of the firemen. "Thanks." And before he can say anything, I skip across the street and scurry down the sidewalk on the other side under the chrome marquee and through the front door of the Hotel George.

Shirtless and speckled with Herman's blood, I draw stares from curious onlookers as I make my way through the lobby to the elevator. One older woman is standing there waiting for a car to arrive. She looks at me wide eyed.

"An accident," I tell her.

"I take it someone was hurt?"

"Yes. He's on his way to the hospital."

"What a shame," she says.

"Yeah, it is." We walk into the elevator together and I lose her on the third floor as I get off and head for my room. I knock on the door. "It's me." Then I use my key to get in, but the door is locked with the safety bar.

"Just a minute," she says. Joselyn comes over, closes the door all the way, then opens it again. "What happened to you? Where's your shirt? Are you cut?"

"No. But Herman's been stabbed. It's bad," I tell her. "He's on the way to the hospital."

"What do you mean, it's bad?" she says.

I head for the bathroom to wash my hands. "I don't know if he's going to make it. It was Liquida. Herman was able to tell me before he pa.s.sed out. And Thorn got away. Slipped out of the garage somehow." I grab a facecloth, wet it down, and start to mop the blood off my body, then notice that the knee of my pants where I pressed it into Herman's back is stained a dry brown. I strip my pants off.

"Let me get you some clothes," she says. A few seconds later Joselyn is back at the bathroom door with a clean shirt and a pair of pants. "Here."

"What I need to know from you is who you called," I tell her.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean your source who gave you all the a.s.surances that the FBI and the police had Thorn under gla.s.s. Because there was n.o.body there. Thorn led Herman into a trap in the garage. And the only way he could have done that was if someone tipped him off and he knew that we were following him."

"What are you talking about?" she says.

"It's possible Thorn might have seen Herman following him," I tell her, "but I doubt it. Herman was too good to let that happen. But even if he did, that doesn't explain Liquida. Herman didn't say anything on the phone this morning when he called about anyone else tagging along with Thorn. According to Herman, when Thorn came out of the elevator in his hotel this morning, he was alone. If anybody had been with him, Herman would have mentioned it, especially if it looked like it might be Liquida. But he didn't. That means Liquida was already waiting for Herman over in the garage. And the only way that could have happened is if someone tipped Thorn off that we were here. And the only person we've talked to besides Thorpe, and he didn't know where we were staying, was your contact."

I look at her as all the computations are being made in that sharp little brain behind her eyes. "I...I find that hard to believe," she says.

"Hard to believe or not, it's a fact. Who else knew we were here?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know."

"It's time to cough it up. The name," I tell her. "Who have you been talking to?"

"Zeb, sorry to break in, but we got another problem." This time it wasn't Thorpe's secretary but Ray Zink, his a.s.sistant. And from the look on Zink's face, Thorpe knew it was trouble.

"We've got reports that there's a commercial air-freight flight, a FedEx plane originally bound for Newark, reporting some kind of onboard emergency and requesting permission to land at Reagan National. Air traffic control tried to divert the flight to Dover Air Force Base and then lost radio contact. But the plane is still in the air and bearing down fast on Washington."

"Well, there's nothing we can do? Did they scramble fighters?" said Thorpe.

"Yeah. Two F-16s out of Andrews," said Zink.

"Okay, well, keep me posted."

Zink turned and started to leave.

"Just out of curiosity," said Thorpe, "where did the wayward FedEx flight originate?"

Zink turned and looked at him. "Puerto Rico."

It took about two seconds of cold fusion before all the circles and rings began to link up in Thorpe's brain. He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Of course. That's it!"

"What is?" said Zink.

"The plane from the boneyard," said Thorpe. "It was where Madriani was headed the last time we talked, Puerto Rico. Madriani told me that Thorn had purchased a commercial jet. I didn't pay any attention. We had Soyev, a bird in the hand. But he didn't know anything because his client kept him at arm's length. He'd never met him. The phone call from North Korea to Cuba. It would be the perfect location for Thorn to hide out while he waited for the two bombs. And Little Boy is still out there."

"You think it's on that plane?" said Zink.

"I'd bet my life on it," said Thorpe. "Madriani and I have been chasing the same man. We just didn't know it. Thorn was Victor Soyev's other half. The client who stiffed him and turned him in. It all makes sense."

Thorpe jumped up from his chair. "Ray, get me Madriani's cell number. My secretary has it. Do it now."

Thorpe's attention suddenly turned toward the White House and the Capitol Building. He was confident that the fighters and the other layers of air defense deployed since 9/11 could take down the plane. The question was whether they could defend against whatever was on board.

FORTY-SEVEN.

My contact is Senator Joshua Root," says Joselyn. "I am telling you this only because I am certain that he has nothing to do with what happened to Herman. I am telling you in confidence and I expect you to keep the secret. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

We are in our room at the Hotel George. I'm still changing my clothes.

"I can't believe what you're saying," she says. "I've worked with him for years. There has to be some mistake."

"Did you tell him where we were staying, here in D.C.?"

She nods. "Yes, but why would he do anything like that? What possible involvement could a man like Joshua Root have with someone like Thorn? What would he possibly have to gain? It's not like him. Josh Root is a dove. I know him. He is a gentle man. He hates violence. True, he's had some bouts with serious depression in the last year or so. But he has been treated for that. We all have times when we're not ourselves. G.o.d knows what I'll be like when I'm his age. But there's no way he'd be involved with someone like Thorn."

"What else did you tell him?" I ask.

"I told him about Thorn and the plane, what happened down in Puerto Rico. I told him everything we knew, and I asked for his help, and he agreed."

I pull on my socks and put on my shoes as we talk.

"When's the last time you talked to him?"

"I tried to call him this morning, just a few minutes ago. I tried his office. They said he wasn't there. I called his house. There was no answer, and his cell phone didn't answer either. I'll try again in a few minutes."

"Root was the source of your information on the nuclear device in San Diego?" I ask.

She nods. "And his information has always been accurate. He has been nothing but truthful every time I've dealt with him. And he takes a considerable personal risk in sharing such information because it's cla.s.sified. He could go to prison and he knows it. But he's willing to take that risk because he knows that the dangers the country and the world face by remaining silent are much greater."

"How did he know about the nuke?"

"He chairs the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. There isn't much he doesn't know. There was a Senate investigation after the attack at Coronado. Root's committee held two weeks of hearings behind closed doors. He told me some of the committee members wanted to go public with the information about the bomb. But the administration convinced them that until they knew more about who planned the attack, and how they carried it out, it would be unwise to disclose the fact that there was a nuclear attempt. All it would do would be to cause needless public panic," says Joselyn. "At least that was the argument."

"Yeah, and would probably raise a lot of questions about how the administration screwed up," I tell her. "Wait a second. Wasn't that the committee Snyder's kid...?"

"Yes. I thought about that when I read the news reports on the murder," says Joselyn. "Jimmie Snyder worked for Root's committee, but it didn't have anything to do with his death."

"How do you know?"

"He was on staff, but he was new. He'd only been there a short time. I'm sure he didn't have any security clearance, so he wouldn't have had access to any significant information. He was a gofer. Besides, he wasn't working there at the time he met Thorn, when those security photographs were taken."

"How do you know that?" I say.

"His father told me. He and I talked after you left the office that day. The day I got sick."

"So where were the photos taken?" I ask.

"I asked him that," says Joselyn. "He told me he'd rather not say. He said Jimmie had made a mistake and paid with his life."

"Violated security protocols, as I recall."

"Yes, by showing Thorn something he wasn't supposed to see," says Joselyn. "Snyder made it clear that unless discussing the details would lead him to Thorn, he didn't want to talk about it."

"Why?" I ask.

"Sheltering his son's reputation, I suppose. Even in death."

"Where are the pictures Snyder gave us?"

"They are in my briefcase," says Joselyn. "Why?"

"Why don't you get them?"

"Sure." She walks over to the other side of the room, looks in her briefcase, and pulls out a manila folder. She opens it and takes out the photos.

We spread them out on the bed. Joselyn lays down on her stomach. I sit. We look at all three photographs for the umpteenth time, two of them showing Thorn and Jimmie Snyder together, the third one, the enlargement of Thorn by himself.

The images are almost ghostlike because of the stark white walls behind them. They look like film frames from one of those movies in which some mortal character plays G.o.d in some whitewashed ethereal corporate office that represents heaven. There is nothing on the walls except the one sign partially obscured behind Thorn's shoulder.

"What's this? It's been bugging me since the first day we saw the photographs, just before lunch at the Brigantine." I point to the sign over Thorn's shoulder, the words "basketball and weightlifting" clearly visible.

"It looks like a gymnasium," says Joselyn.

"It has to be here in this city someplace. Are you sure you don't recognize it? You're the Washington insider," I say.

She shakes her head. "No. I've never seen it before. It doesn't ring any bells." She tries to read the line below it, the last few words of which are visible over Thorn's shoulder but lost in the glare of light. "It looks as if there's some kind of a plastic sheet or cover over the sign," she says. "The rest of the sign is blocked by part of Thorn's head and body. Give me a minute." Joselyn rolls over, sits up, and again walks to where her briefcase is. When she returns, she has a small plastic case about an inch and a half square and half an inch thick in her hand. She pulls on it and a small magnifying gla.s.s slides out. She reaches across the bed and picks up the photograph with the sign in the background. She holds the magnifying lens close to the photo and examines the image as if it were a fine piece of jewelry. "Oh, my G.o.d! What day is it?"

"Monday. Why?"

"The first Monday in October, right?"

"Yeah."

"The sign. It's the highest court in the land," says Joselyn.

"What?"

"We don't have time to talk," she says. "Come on." She grabs me by the arm and pulls me toward the door.

FORTY-EIGHT.

He sat in the small, dark room watching a tiny television set, the breaking news of the unfolding events over the subway in New York.

"Information is sketchy at this time but it appears that something has happened at a construction site out near the Battery on the tip of Manhattan. There are reports of a shooting between transit police and an unidentified suspect involving some kind of large vehicle, a heavy truck of some kind, and that the area around this construction zone has been cordoned off by police.

"Jim, as you can see, I am near the site. But police have now moved us back three blocks from where this is happening, so our camera really can't see anything. And now I'm getting word that our helicopter, which was en route, will not be able to get a visual of the location because authorities have cleared the airs.p.a.ce above the site, for what reason we're not sure.

"In addition, subway service into and out of the area has been shut down, and police and emergency services workers are moving as quickly as possible to get people out of the subway. According to the subway system, they have closed all stations from midtown down to the Battery."

"Mike, can you tell us, are you able to see any portion of the construction site from where you are right now?"

"Jim, actually I'm not."

"Mike, we're being told that according to the authorities it's the site of the new Fulton Street transit station."

"That would be about right, but as I say, they've pushed us back so far that we really can't see anything. Excuse me...just a moment."

The Old Weatherman watched as the reporter on the screen pressed his finger to his ear and listened as one of his producers told him what was happening.