Chaney swears under his breath. “All right, obviously I need to brief the president about this right away. Meanwhile, I want all public access to SOSUS shut down immediately. Information is to be kept on a need-to-know basis only. From now on, this operation remains covert, understood?”

“What about satellite photos?” Aldrich asks. “The mass may just represent a tiny pinprick in the Gulf, but it’s still a bright pinprick. Eventually a GOES or SPOT satellite is going to run across the object. Once we send a Navy ship or even a science vessel into the area, we’ll tip our hand to the rest of the world.”

The NASA director nods in agreement. “Sir, Debra’s right. However, I think I know a way we can keep this operation covert while still allowing our scientists unlimited access to whatever’s down there.”

Washington, D.C. / Miami, Florida.

Anthony Foletta locks the door to his office before sitting down at his desk to receive the long-distance communication.

Pierre Borgia’s image appears on the telemonitor. “Do you have an update, Director?”

Foletta keeps his voice low. “No, sir, but the police are keeping a close surveillance on the girl. I’m certain he’ll eventually contact her—”

“Eventually? Listen, Foletta, you make it absolutely clear that Gabriel’s dangerous, do you understand? Instruct the police to shoot to kill. I want him dead, or you can kiss that Tampa directorship good-bye.”

“Gabriel hasn’t murdered anyone. We both know the police won’t kill him—”

“Then hire someone who will.”

Foletta looks down at his lap as if allowing the Secretary of State’s words to sink in. In reality, he has been anticipating this directive ever since his resident first escaped. “I might know of someone who could handle it, but to do the job right will be expensive.”

“How much?”

“Thirty. Plus expenses.”

Borgia sneers. “You’re a lousy poker player, Foletta. I’ll send twenty, not a dime more. You’ll have it within the hour.”

The telemonitor flashes its dial tone.

Foletta switches off the system, then verifies that the conversation had been recorded. For a long moment, he contemplates his next move. Then he removes his cellular phone from his desk drawer and dials Raymond’s pager.

Sanibel Island, Florida

The white Lincoln pulls into the gravel driveway. Thirty-one-year-old Karen Simpson, a deeply tanned, peroxide blonde wearing a bright aqua dress, steps out from the driver’s seat and ceremoniously walks around to the passenger door to assist her mother, Dory, from the vehicle.

A half block down the road, a plainclothes police officer watches from a surveillance van as the two grieving women, arm in arm, slowly make their way around to the back of the Axler home to where shivah, the Jewish gathering of the bereaved, is taking place.