HARRY TOOK HIS paper bag into the now-deserted armory and went to his workroom. He weighed the bag: six and a half ounces. Plenty. He molded the malleable plastic explosive into the desired shape, then unwrapped a throwaway cell phone he had bought at his neighborhood supermarket and plugged it in for charging. The battery was already eighty percent charged, so he didn’t have to wait long. He cut a piece of wire, stripped the ends of their insulation, secured one end to a detonator he had taken from the construction shack, and pressed the detonator into the soft explosive, then he used duct tape to fix the cell phone to the explosive, satisfied that it had a sufficient charge. He did not fix the detonator wire to the phone—not yet. Safety first, he told himself.

Harry put the completed bomb and some tools and duct tape into his tin lunchbox, then went home. As he walked into his apartment, his phone was ringing and he picked it up.

“This is your client,” a woman’s voice said. “The gentleman you seek will depart at nine A.M. the day after tomorrow, not tomorrow. All other arrangements are the same. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, and she hung up.

—

STONE AND ANN arrived at the Staples Center with the Bacchettis in an Arrington SUV and, after the usual security procedures, took the elevator up to Stone’s skybox.

The bartender brought them drinks, and Stone picked up a pair of binoculars and stood at the big window, panning around the convention floor. He found the New Mexico delegation—only five delegates, but with various spouses and hangers-on seated with them they came to fifteen or twenty, including Ed Eagle, who stood head and shoulders above the rest. Pete Otero was not in sight.

Stone kept panning until he found the Virginia delegation—bigger than that of New Mexico, with thirteen delegates. Senator Mark Willingham was not among them.

He did the same for the huge California delegation. With its fifty-five delegates and their hangers-on it came to more than a hundred people. Governor Dick Collins stood in the midst of them, shaking hands and buttonholing delegates, whispering intently into an ear here and there.

Stone called Ed Eagle, who answered immediately. “Hi there, I’ve got binoculars on you.”

Ed turned and looked up at the skybox and waved.

“Where’s your governor?”

“I don’t know—not here, though.”

“Funny, Willingham isn’t with his delegation, either.”

“Train your binoculars to the right, under the first balcony. There’s a bar.”

Stone panned right. “Got it.” Ah, there were the missing pols, in earnest conversation. “Otero has Willingham by a lapel. I’ll bet he doesn’t like that, but he’s nodding, so they must be in agreement. Powwow is breaking up now. Your governor will be with you in a moment.”

“I’d better go,” Eagle said and hung up.