Every one of Branson’s old hands, however, knew that Raymos was brought along not so much to learn the ropes as to serve Branson as a personal assistant. Not that they blamed him. Even the other women on his team appreciated the fact that an agent with Branson’s seniority and responsibilities needed someone to keep the little things at the ops center squared away. But Raymos was there to do more than tend to Branson’s personal needs. The majority of her time was spent fielding the endless series of phone calls. Even more important to Branson was the need to have someone sift through of all the incoming information and package it into a useful product. “The curse,” Branson told her in the beginning, “of the information age is information. What I need from you each and every day is not a massive data dump. Any moron can do that. What I need is a person who can stick her hand into a bunch of goo, that a moment before was a pile of faxes, and know what to do with them.”

After savoring a long sip, Branson made his way to his desk, plopped down in his seat, and leaned back. Raymos waited till he was settled in before she started. “The afternoon update from the agency is pretty much a repeat of this morning’s. The prime suspect, the delivery man named Stoner, is still at large. Two more survivors have placed him at the scene. One, a woman, followed him out of the building, claiming that he even held the door open for her and smiled when she thanked him.”

“Well,” Branson sneered. “That was right neighborly of him, wasn’t it.”

Raymos, endeavoring to impress Branson with her professionalism, nodded politely but continued with her summary. “The forensic people have found plenty of residue from the Composition 1, or RDX that he mixed in his own bathroom, but no other fingerprints other than Stoner’s anywhere in the house except on the literature he had from the 5th Brigade.”

At this, Branson brought his feet down to the floor, spun his seat around, and looked at a cluster of photos posted on the wall behind his desk of known and suspected members of the 5th Brigade. Bold red checks in the upper right hand corner of three of the photos identified those members of the 5th Brigade whose fingerprints had been found on printed material and books Stoner had left behind in his house. “How come I don’t see any new ones, Special Agent Raymos?” Branson asked as he returned his seat to face his assistant.

“That’s all they could find. And according to the agent I spoke with this afternoon, that’s all they expect to find.”

Branson folded his hands on the desk, cocked his head to one side, and thought about it. Then, he leaned back in his seat again, bringing his still folded hands up onto his stomach. “Well, three’s going to have to be good enough.”