It came and she tasted it, pronouncing it full-bodied with a hint of plum, which would go well with my duck. I didn't think my duck cared.

Anyway, she raised her glass and said, "To beepers that don't go off on weekends."

"Amen." We clinked glasses and drank. Hers must have had the plum.

I held the wineglass to the candlelight and said, "Nice sleeve."

"Nice what?"

"Cuffs?"

She rolled her eyes.

So, we had a nice dinner in pleasant surroundings, and Kate's beautiful blue eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and the red wine made me feel all warm and fuzzy.

It was easy to pretend that all was right with the world. It never is, of course, and never was, but you have to steal a few hours now and then, and pretend that the rest of the world isn't going to hell.

On that subject, everyone I know still talks about how their lives have changed since September 11, and it's not all for the worse. A lot of people, myself included, and Kate, too, sort of woke up and said, "It's time to stop sweating the small stuff. It's time to re-connect to people you like and get rid of people you don't like. We're not dead, so we need to live."

My father, who is a World War II veteran, once tried to describe to me the mood of the country after Pearl Harbor. He's not good with words, and he was having some difficulty painting a picture of America on that first Christmas after December 7, 1941. Finally, he got it and said, "We were all scared, so we drank and fucked a lot, and we called and visited people we hadn't seen in a while, and people sent lots of cards and letters, and everybody came closer together, and helped each other, so it really wasn't that bad." Then he asked me, "Why did we need a war to do that?"

Because, Pop, that's the way we are. And on September 11, last year, my parents spent two days trying to reach me from Florida, and when they finally got through to me, they spent fifteen minutes telling me how much they always loved me, which was a bit of a surprise, but I'm sure they meant it.

And that's the way we are now, but in a year or two, lacking another attack on the country, we'll be back to our normal, self-centered, standoffish selves. And that's okay, too, because quite frankly I'm getting a little tired of out-of-town friends and family asking me how I'm doing. We've all had our cathartic moment, and our re-evaluation of our lives, and it's time to get on with whatever we were doing, and go back to being whoever we were.

I do, however, like the excessive drinking and fucking thing, and we should hold on to that awhile longer. My bachelor friends tell me ... well, that's another topic for another time.

Meanwhile, I said to Kate, "I love you."

She reached across the table and took my hand. "I love you, too, John."

And that's one good thing that came out of that day. I wasn't the most attentive husband on September 10, but the next day, when I thought she was dead, my world collapsed with those towers. And when I saw her alive, I realized I needed to say "I love you" more often, because in this business and in this life, you never know what's going to happen tomorrow.

PART IV

Saturday

UPSTATE NEW YORK

Power always thinks it has a great soul and vast views beyond the comprehension of the weak, and that it is doing God's service when it is violating all His laws.

-John Adams

CHAPTER SEVEN

Harry Muller sat blindfolded, with his ankles shackled, in what felt like a comfortable leather chair. He smelled burning wood and cigarette smoke.

He could hear people speaking in low tones, and he thought he heard Bain Madox's voice.

Someone slid the blindfold down around his neck, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that he was sitting at the end of a long pine table. Also sitting at the table were five other men: two on each side, and at the head of the table, facing him, was Bain Madox. The men were speaking to one another as if he wasn't there.

In front of each man were legal pads, pens, water bottles, and coffee cups. Harry noticed a keyboard in front of Madox.

He looked around the room, which was a library or a den. The fireplace was to his left, flanked by two windows whose drapes were drawn so that he couldn't see out, but he knew from his blindfolded walk from his cell that he was on the ground floor.

Standing near the door were Carl and another security guard. They were wearing holstered pistols but not carrying cattle prods.

He now noticed a very big, black leather suitcase sitting upright in the middle of the floor. It was an old suitcase, strapped to a wheeled caddy.

Bain Madox seemed to notice him for the first time and said, "Welcome, Mr. Muller. Coffee? Tea?"

Harry shook his head.

Madox said to the other four men, "Gentlemen, this is the man I told you about-Detective Harry Muller, NYPD, retired, currently working for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Please make him feel welcome."

Everyone acknowledged their guest with a nod.

Harry thought two of the guys looked familiar.

Madox continued, "As you know, gentlemen, we have a few friends on the Task Force, but apparently none of them were aware that Mr. Muller was going to drop in today."

One of the men said, "We'll need to look into that."

The others nodded in unison.

Harry tried to see through this bullshit, to reinforce his hope that this was an elaborately staged test. But somewhere in the back of his mind, this hope was fading, though he clung to it.

Madox motioned to the guards, who left the room.

Harry looked at the men along the table. Two were about Madox's age, one was older, and the one to his right was younger than the rest. They all wore blue blazers and casual plaid shirts like Madox, as though this were the uniform of the day.

Harry focused on the two men who looked familiar; he was sure he'd seen them on TV or in the newspapers.

Madox noticed Harry's stare and said, "Forgive me for not formally introducing my Executive Board-"

One of the men interrupted, "Bain, names are not necessary."

Madox replied, "I think Mr. Muller recognizes a few of you, anyway."

No one responded, except Harry. "I don't need any names-"

"You need," said Madox, "to know what august company you are in." Madox indicated the man to his immediate right-the oldest person in the room and the one who had made the objection. "Harry, this is Paul Dunn, adviser to the president on matters of national security and a member of the National Security Council, whom you probably recognize."