“I’ve noticed them at the hallway corners,” Ricci said. “I can see where some door frames have been replaced.”

“Figured you would,” Thibodeau said. “Later on, I’m gonna walk you down to the monitoring station, show you right where they all are—”

“Don’t bother,” Ricci said. “They’re okay. Most people won’t spot them. The ones who do would be good enough to make any kind of scanners we install. I just want to know how they perform.”

Thibodeau shifted in his chair. He was suddenly conscious of his uniform’s too-snug fit, of the too-tight waistband of his trousers around his middle, of the chair’s armrests pressing into his fleshy sides. If he pulled up his shirt, he would find little irritated patches of red on his flanks, wouldn’t he?

He wondered what it was about Tom Ricci that had set off the heightened sense of his own ungainliness. Or maybe he was just projecting. Ricci hadn’t said or done anything that could be taken as a reaction to his size. But Ricci was also just as whipcord lean as he’d been a year ago. While he himself had put on half a hundred pounds.

Thibodeau remembered the rattle and bang of the scale when he’d stepped off it. He adjusted his position behind the desk again.

“The scanners,” he said. “They’re . . . how can I say it? . . . more discriminating. Walkthroughs we had before weren’t no better than what they using at commercial airports. You know the problems with them. Can’t tell the difference between an Uzi and a set of keys or some pocket change. Can’t find where something is on a person’s body. And they be screwed up easy by electrical fields. Too many computers or cell phones working around them, we get false alarms. Waste time and resources. These CWD systems we installed can tell the object’s size and shape, and pinpoint where it’s located. Whether it be under somebody’s left arm, strapped around his ankles, or stuffed where the sun don’t shine.”

Ricci’s head went up and down.

“All right,” he said. “What else is there?”

“Hate to think about it, but we put a whole response system in place for biochemical incidents,” Thibodeau said. “This whole building been outfitted with sensors. Every room. Every office. Rooftop to basement.”

Ricci looked at him.

“Hell,” he said.

“I know,” Thibodeau said. “Cost us a fortune.”

Ricci kept looking steadily at him.

“I wasn’t talking about what it cost,” he said. “I meant this world of ours is fucking hell.”

Thibodeau was silent. He’d never much liked Ricci, but had developed a certain trust in him. In his abilities, his self-command in tough spots. Now he didn’t know what to think. Ricci hadn’t changed on the outside, it was true. Inside, though, something was very different. It was as if those hard, unsharing eyes of his were mirrored glass surfaces. Thibodeau didn’t know what was going on behind them.

“The sensors,” Ricci said. “They mass spec?”