"Yeah .. . So?"

"This memo pad was in my briefcase. He got it from my briefcase. He had already seen the itineraries. Get it?"

"No."

"If he had already seen the itineraries, then why did he ask me to deliver them to him?" He only waited a second before answering himself. She had never seen him like this; she felt afraid of him. "Because he needed a reason a really good reason for me to believe he would risk a face-to-face meeting. It's all double-think. It's all out thinking the other guy putting yourself inside his head. Get it?"

"Then why did he ask for the itineraries? No, I don't get it!"

"Because he needed a witness. It had nothing to do with itineraries. He needed me the head of the investigation to witness his death. But he wrote his note on the wrong f.u.c.king memo pad, and it's going to hang him."

"He's alive?" She reached for the edge of table in order to balance herself.

"d.a.m.n right he's alive." He scattered a bunch of his own papers and thumbed through the ones she had brought for him. He removed the runway map of LAX. "The scale is too big, so we can't even see Hollywood Park, but take my word for it." He fished through the debris for a ruler, measured the scale of miles, and then measured off the end of the open map. He signaled her to hand him the salt and pepper. She did so. "Hollywood Park is right here," he said, placing down the salt shaker.

"I don't have the slightest idea where you're going with this."

He leaned forward and slammed the salt shaker down once again. She jumped back. "This is where sixty-four hit. Right here. Exactly here." He took the ruler in hand and measured off the distance. "You see the size of Hollywood Park it's huge. Barnes was the one who told me," he said, confusing her. "Barnes told me the simulation at Duhning and the crash of sixty-four confirmed the same flight pattern. The real plane and the simulator flew the same distance; and in both cases landed in the same place. If you transpose the simulation to a real map, then the plane crashes in Hollywood Park. He told me that," Daggett said, "and it went right over my head."

"You're frightening me."

"Good," he said, nodded wildly. "The truth is frightening, isn't it? "Physics," Barnes said. I wasn't listening to him. Physics! You remove pilot control and the plane falls. In effect, the 959 pilots were all trained by Ward they would all perform these first few minutes of flight in the same manner: Kort could count on that. He is counting on that."

She felt her eyes go hot and scratchy, and she knew she was about to cry. She stepped toward him wanting to comfort him, wanting to give him some peace. He stopped her by taking hold of both her shoulders and waiting for her eyes.

He stepped back, held up a finger, and returned to the maps she had brought. "Bear with me." He began tossing papers everywhere, and in doing so, added to the image of insanity. The huge sheets of white snow fell and covered the carpet. Only then did she notice the wheelchair, folded and leaning against the wall. There was no stopping her tears. She let them fall and watched her favorite man slip over the edge. "The question," he said, resettled, "is what's his target? And which airport will he use, Dulles or National? The plane has to leave from one of the two airports, right? And that," he added, "is why I needed you to bring this." He turned to make sure she was with him and seeing her, he set the map down slowly, a comic who realizes he's no longer funny. "Don't give up on me. Don't do this."

"It's over."

"It's not over."

"Kort is dead, Cam. They'll find Duncan. You have to believe they'll find him."

"If you don't pay attention, you'll never convince the others."

"Don't do this!" she shouted, crossing her arms to fend off the cold, backing away from him.

"I'm not off my rocker, d.a.m.n it all. I've figured it out! Jesus!" he said, pounding the table so hard, he broke the leaf and all the papers spilled out onto the floor, covering his feet. He watched the papers settle and sadness drained into his face. "You don't believe me? The memo note isn't all." He dropped through the floor and dug his pile of snow until he located a particular piece of paper. "Gloria, bless her heart, got me the early reports, including one from the hospital where they took what remained of him whoever he was." He tried to make the table leaf work again, and when he failed, walked around to the other side. "The thing about being the lead investigator is that you hold dozens maybe hundreds of different pieces of data in your head. One department knows this; they tell you. Another finds out that; they write you a memo. But you're the only one with all the pieces."

"What do you mean, 'convince the others'?" she asked.

"See? You are paying attention. That's good."

She stepped closer to him, still afraid, though he had calmed and she found herself drawn to him.

"They would have spotted this eventually. Today, maybe. Tomorrow. Next week. Probably next week, because we don't like outside reports. We like to generate our own reports. If it's FBI, then we trust it. If it isn't . We'd rather wait until one of our own comes in. My bet? No one's read this report very carefully. And even if they had, they would think it's a mistake. Why? Because despite all our p.i.s.sing and moaning about evidence, we trust the agent over all the evidence combined. The lead agent? No one's going to question what I saw down there. They see something wrong in a report, they'll order another report. They find that report comes back wrong, they might even order it done again. That's the way we work take it or leave it."

"Spotted what?"

"And I'll tell you something else: You repeat the same story enough times and you start to look at it real carefully, and I just plain didn't like the way it sounded. A guy like Kort fires off a couple rounds point-blank at me and misses. Kort? No way. Not from that distance. So why did he miss? Because he needed me as a witness."

"Spotted what?" she shouted, shaking the paper he handed her.

"Blood alcohol. The hospital didn't work up a blood type, but when someone does, it won't match either. But by then it'll be way too late. The guy who hit the train was six sheets to the wind. Two-point-one-oh blood alcohol level. Smashed. Blotto. s.h.i.tfaced. And believe me the Anthony Kort I was chasing in that tunnel was stone-cold sober."

She scanned the hospital report and her eyes found the tiny little box: 2.1, it read. Now she did believe, though she didn't want to. He was back with the maps, tossing things everywhere.

"Okay .. . Okay .. . Let's have a look here. The scale is different .. d.a.m.n it ... d.a.m.n it .. ." He checked the runway map of LAX and that for Dulles and did some math calculations right onto the wood of the table. Then he grabbed the ruler and a pencil and drew a line six inches off the end of a runway, checked his numbers, stopped, measured an angle with Duncan's protractor, and drew another line. His fingers searched the end of this line. She could feel his disappointment. He leaned closer to read the map. "There's nothing out here. Nothing at all. Suburbs. Nothing but suburbs. That can't be it."

"Nothing where?" she hollered, her confusion overwhelming her.

As Cam threw the Dulles map onto the floor and unrolled the map of National Airport that she had brought for him, he explained impatiently, "The target isn't the plane. I mean it is, but it isn't. Not really. The target is on the ground. The plane is the bomb. He's going to drop a plane, and he knows exactly where it's going to fall."

She looked over his shoulder as he did some more math and began drawing lines this time from a runway at National Airport. "Who would believe it, right? He's counting on that." He smelled as if he hadn't showered, and his whiskers were long. His plotted course ended in the Tidal Basin of West Potomac Park, near the Jefferson Memorial. He checked it twice. "It's not working," he said. "It's not possible. I know I'm right about this. I know the evidence is right."

She leaned over him. He moved aside, his eyes glazed. He had grown suddenly distant. "Runway thirty-six is the more common," she said, pointing. He didn't move. "Depends on the winds." She took the ruler from him and duplicated the first leg of the 7 he had drawn. She measured the angle off this new stem, and drew the final short leg of the projected flight where the plane would slip left as it fell. The pen stopped before it reached its destination, before she completed the work, because she had raised her head in disbelief. Cam stared at the point of the pen too. He looked as terrified as she felt. The tip of the pen rested on the Pentagon.

"The meeting," Daggett said in a forced whisper that revealed his fear. "That must be where they're holding the meeting!"

The phone rang. He turned and stared at it. "He's going to crash a plane into the Pentagon."

"Cam?" she said, drawn by the ringing phone.

He was frozen. "My G.o.d. He's going to kill them all."

She hurried to the phone and answered it. "Just a minute please," she added as she reached it out to him. "Quik-Link Courier, or something like that."

"Daggett," he said, accepting the phone's receiver from her. He listened, searched for a pen and, finding one, said, "This Boote, you tried calling him? .. . Nothing? .. . Can you give me his home address, please?" He scribbled out an Alexandria address. "You have a Duhning 959 in your fleet," he stated emphatically. "I'm psychic," he said, obviously answering the man. "Ground it ... What are you talking about: 'in person'?" He checked his watch. "There's no time for that. Ground the f.u.c.king plane .. . I'm telling you, I'm FBI! No ... No ... You can't call me at the FBI. I'm not at the FBI, I'm home .. . Okay .. . Okay .. . I'm on my way. How long until that plane goes? How long? s.h.i.t! You better stall it, mister, or you'll be looking for work .. . d.a.m.n!" He slammed the receiver down. To Lynn he said, "The guy hung up on me. He wanted to call me back at the office to make sure I'm for real. He thinks I'm a hoax."

"They have a 959?"

"It goes in half an hour." He pointed into the dining room. "Take all this stuff to Buzzard Point. To Pullman. Mumford, if you can get to him. Tell him you know the meeting is at the Pentagon. That ought to do it. Explain it as best you can, but whatever you do, get someone to ground that plane."

She checked her watch. "You'll make it before I will."

"Put your foot into it." He had the front door open. He pointed to the phone. "And have someone check that address for a David Boote. Kort's doing this one the same way he did L.A. Tell them that. L.A. was nothing but a rehearsal. This is the real show. Tell him I gotta have some backup." He said something else, but she didn't hear. He was still shouting at her as his van knocked over the mailbox, raced ahead tires screaming, and disappeared down the quiet suburban street.

THIRTY-NINE.

CARRIE STEVENSON KNEW what had to be done. She couldn't be sure they had left together, and so rather than bang on the door that communicated with the room in which Duncan was kept, she stood and searched the medicine cabinet, remembering this Frenchwoman had put on some fresh makeup that morning. She found a dark brown eye-lining pencil, and with this she wrote SMOKE ALARM on a piece of bathroom tissue.

She stretched out fully then, her ankle bound by the rope to the pipe, and was just able to reach the crack beneath the communicating door. It was a substantial gap, the door having been cut to accommodate the carpet on the other side. She took a drag on the Sobranie and then scratched lightly on the door until she heard the distinct sound of Duncan dragging himself across the carpet. She pushed the tissue through first, relieved as it vanished. Next, she carefully stuffed the cigarette under, b.u.t.t first. She scratched again. It disappeared.

She sat back and prayed. One of the selling points of this cabin was that the smoke alarm system was tied in directly to the fire station. There was no such alarm in the bathroom, and even if there had been, with her leg bound to the pipe she never could have reached it. But Duncan, because of his disability, had not been tied down, and having been here only days ago with Kort, she remembered the layout of the room well enough to recall the substantial floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. So now, it all came down to Duncan.

Having extracted the toilet paper from the crack in the door, Duncan unfolded it and read the message. From his perspective on the floor, as he rocked his head to look, the white smoke alarm mounted in the ceiling seemed about as far away as the moon on a clear night. It wasn't until he heard her scratching again that he saw the cigarette, and it wasn't until he took the cigarette from her and saw it burning that he realized what was expected of him. The moon, h.e.l.l it looked more like Pluto.

As he lay there thinking about it, feeling the impossible was being asked of him, the cigarette's ember spit fire and some ash floated to the carpet like fresh snow. Then he understood: He only had a few minutes in which to accomplish this. The cigarette was half burned.

He tried to carry it by pinching it between his knuckles, but with his hands his only means of propulsion, he resorted to sticking it into his lips, squinting away the smoke and hurrying to the bookshelf. By the time he had dragged himself to the bottom of the bookshelf, his eyes stung and he was coughing. He hauled himself up to a sitting position using the first few shelves. Now, the face of the bookshelf appeared to him a multicolored sheer granite wall stretching impossibly into a sky of white Sheetrock clouds far, far overhead.

Initially, he didn't think about the task before him as a series of pullups, which in fact was exactly what it was. Instead, he thought about the task in terms of the goal: to reach the smoke alarm before the cigarette burned out. With his mind focused on this end, he stuffed the smoking cigarette back between his lips, having taken a moment for fresh air, and began his journey, the dead weight of his legs following behind him like an old dog on a long leash. To him, the shelves were merely rungs to a ladder, and it didn't occur to him that by the time he reached Hemingway he had the equivalent of two complete pull-ups behind him. Fully airborne, and with two shelves to go, the smoke alarm suddenly seemed no closer, and it was then, as he placed his hands next to each other and began to grunt and heave, that it occurred to him that he couldn't do this. This was a pull-up and he couldn't do a pull-up. This consideration, which had the impact of a startling discovery, served to weaken not only the strength in his trembling arms but his resolve. Impossibility had no shades of gray, and for weeks he had proven this impossible.

But then again, he thought, if this was impossible, how had he climbed this far already? A quick glance down confirmed his substantial elevation as well as delivered another stream of stinging smoke into his eyes, which he huffed and blinked away and corrected by looking up again. If he could do two pull-ups, why not four? His father's voice spoke to him as clearly as if he were standing right there in the room with him: The only way there is through. Now Duncan understood. His attention had been on the smoke alarm, not on his own strength, his own weakness, not on his journey but his destination. Hot ash glancing his chin and falling like stones from the face of the mountain, he refocused his attention on that alarm, and drew himself up. His arms burned and shook like rubber, but he paid no attention. He pulled and strained and lifted himself another shelf higher. Victory was but a single shelf away. His fingers found it and he grunted loudly. Nothing could stop him now. His eyes crept past the final shelf and he snagged his belt on a shelf below. He had reached the summit.

With one hand craning him out toward the center of the room, the other waving the cigarette immediately beneath the vented grate of the plastic smoke alarm, Duncan took his first and last drag of a cigarette in his life, kissing the end as he had watch Carrie do, and drawing the smoke into his cheeks and down into his virgin lungs. He exploded into a ferocious cough, spraying out smoke and spit until the alarm disappeared in his cloud.

His fingers lost purchase and he fell.

Those few seconds of his descent seemed to him like long hours. He had no legs with which to brake his fall. In fact, his legs seemed more like anchors that only served to accelerate him. He had no chance to defend himself. His attention fixed not on the floor below him but on the smoke alarm overhead, where the results of his cough still swirled.

Then, like the buzzer sounding the end of the game, the shrieking electronic cry of the alarm split the air, signaling victory. This stole all of his attention. He hit the floor hard too hard headfirst.

It was only as he came to that he realized he must have blacked out, for above the shriek of the alarm he heard sirens in the distance. But he savored this moment of singular victory as no other. His neck hurt like h.e.l.l, but the scream of the overhead alarm was sweet music to his ears.

No one charged through the door to silence it. No one came in to kill him. "Duncan! Duncan!" he faintly heard Carrie hollering from her side of the door. "You've done it!"

FORTY.

AS DAGGETT TURNED onto the George Washington Memorial Parkway it became immediately clear to him not only that Lynn Greene would be delayed by unexpected bridge construction but that he, too, was about to slow to a crawl. Having left the congestion at the bridge behind, he focused instead on the snarl of vehicles up ahead and was reminded of the recent August afternoon when Bob Back-man had lost his life. He wasn't driving a company car, so he lacked any form of communication, as well as a police bubble, both of which might have served him well, though he wasn't sure how. In a progression of events all too familiar to any urban driver, distances between vehicles shortened, as did tempers. A chorus of discordant car horns, like white-plumed steam whistles, vented some of this anger. Windows rolled down; heads leaned out. Brake lights flared, blinking in matching pairs, bleeding toward Daggett like a string of Christmas lights, as he, too, found his foot tapping the brake, continuing the chain reaction.

Traffic stopped.

The multicolored necklace, of which his van was but a single bead, lay dormant on the hot pavement, alive, impatient and anxious, restlessly surging forward but without any measurable progress. And whereas the last time he had found himself in this same predicament and had taken several minutes to make his move, this time he hesitated only long enough to force his van through gaps left by unwilling neighbors and onto the freshly mowed gra.s.s, where he subsequently abandoned it.

Of the thirty minutes he had given himself at the start of this journey, he now counted only twelve remaining. He had not gone for a run since the morning of discovering Duncan's abduction two days ago, and this painful reminder of his son's perilous condition served to lengthen his strides and increase his pace. He ran faster than he had in ages, even fully clothed as he was. Within minutes, he was jumping dividers and crossing lanes, precariously dodging the hazards of moving traffic, the industrialized section of the airport just ahead. He saw the sign for Federal Express. He saw AVIS and HERTZ. He high-jumped a low steel fence on the run, slapped a car on the hood as it nearly hit him, and ran against traffic. He could just make out the sign for Quik-Link Courier, a hundred yards away.

FORTY-ONE.

THIS TIME, WHEN Kort examined the wind sock, high above the hangars, he noted with satisfaction that it, too, reflected the change in direction he had first observed out at the gatehouse. Monique, with her position as a vice-president of In-Flite, was to have escorted him onto the field through one of the four vehicle entrances to National's tarmac. Knowing that she had been a subject of the FBI's investigation, he could only a.s.sume that those at In-Flite would be well aware of the chaos she had caused, and would more than likely detain her for authorities were she to show herself there. However, as she had been quick to point out, at National she was something of a fixture with the gate guards, coming and going as many as several times a day. The possibility that the FBI would have contacted the subcontracting security companies at both airports seemed slim, especially given Kort's "death" the night before. Nonetheless, the possibility remained, and so, as she drove up to National's remote east gate, Kort's hand remained fixed to the b.u.t.t of his weapon.

"Hi, Charlie," she said, rolling down her window. Kort unfastened his seat belt and prepared to use the weapon. Monique stopped him with a casual touch.

"New car, Miss Cheysson," he said.

"Mine is in the shop."

"Even so, you don't have a sticker."

She handed the guard Kort's guest identification tag and he looked it over, handing it back. "He's okay. But I don't know about the car," he said. "You're supposed to have a sticker."

"What should I do? Do you have the authority to look it over, or do I have to check with Airport Police?"

Kort delighted in her choice of tactics. Resentments and jealousies ran high between the various subcontracted security agencies and the ubiquitous Airport Police, who oversaw, but did not directly manage, all security subcontractors. By challenging this man's authority, she forced him into a decision.

"Let me have the keys to the trunk," he said.

She turned toward Kort and smirked. The guard popped open the trunk. As he did, Monique slipped out of the shoulder restraint, leaned forward, and grabbed Kort's flight bag. She quickly unzipped the bag and placed the fire extinguisher between the bucket seats, in plain view. Charlie slammed the trunk shut and came around the car, peering into the back. When he reached the front and looked past Kort, he said, "What about that?"

She replied, "For one of our trucks."

Apparently satisfied, he came around the front of the car and leaned down on one knee. Kort was thinking how simple it would be to run him over. A moment later he entered the guard booth and lifted the phone.

"What now?" Kort asked.

"He probably has to get permission from his people, but at least we kept Airport Police out of it," she said in a self-congratulatory tone.

It was only then that Kort realized the guard was all alone in the booth. He pointed this out to Monique.

"That happens now and then. They must take turns going to the bathroom or something."

"I don't like this phone call," Kort said.

"Be patient."

"He's not even talking. What if he's stalling?"

"He's not stalling. He's getting permission."

"There's n.o.body out here. I can take him out."

"Have some patience."

"I don't like the way he's looking at us."

"Please!" she scolded.

Kort looked around quickly. They were at the far end of the field, a good quarter-mile from the center of activity. The nearest building had something to do with maintenance for one of the shuttle companies and it was at least fifty yards away. He didn't like this phone call. He had plenty of patience, but this was taking too long. "Something's not right," he said. "He's stalling." He climbed out of the car. She leaned across the seat and grabbed for him, but missed. He checked the immediate area one last time. All clear. "Excuse me, sir," he said. Charlie the guard was just hanging up the phone.

"You see," Monique said conspiratorially, still leaning toward Kort but seeing for herself that Charlie was off the phone. "Get back in here."