“What about all the science magic you do? DNA, hairs, atoms, that sort of thing?”

“Nothing yet. Again, it’s doubtful any microtraces will be found to lead anywhere. Maybe once we get Juba, we might be able to DNA trace, but as of now, since we don’t have any DNA on him, DNA is pointless. In all other respects it was just standard Remington 700, Police Model, with a standard Leupold in standard mounting hardware. No gunsmithing required, no trip to custom rifle specialists; ergo, no information. Firearms Division is running the number, and they haven’t come up with anything yet, but if it follows the pattern, it’ll be a straw man’s purchase in some faraway state that proves to be a dead end. Meanwhile, the rifle just sits on a rack in the Hoover Building.”

“It’s a .308, I assume?”

“No. It was something called 6.5 Creedmoor.”

Bob nodded, considering.

“Does that tell you anything?” Nick asked.

“The fact that he’s onto 6.5 Creedmoor is an indication of how up-to-date he is. It’s the big new thing, on all the magazine covers. Supposedly more accurate than .308. The boy don’t miss no tricks.”

“So it looks like no progress,” said Nick. “But it confirms what we know: money is behind it, big money. Again, that tells us the target is major, and we ought to get going or something bad will happen.”

“Should you go to the White House?” asked Neill. “It seems that his target—”

“No,” said Nick. “When you go there, it gets all sticky politically, and other agendas beyond law enforcement come into play. That is why I would prefer if you keep speculation on the ultimate target to yourself. If you make an assumption, we’re in a world of confirmation bias, and clarity is the first casualty. I want us to work in the complete context-free abstract until it’s not possible. Don’t you agree, Mr. Gold?”

“I do entirely,” said Gold. “In Israel too, politics beclouds our efforts all too often.”

“So, what’s next conceptually? Tell me how to use Counterterrorism’s manpower to flood a zone and flush something out. Tell me some way to aggressively proact, not just wait to pick up the pieces and hope we identify a piece of DNA or Juba’s credit card.”

Silence.

Gold then said, “Sergeant Swagger, his shot will be at over a mile, you think. But at a certain point, he is required to divert, and he goes on this mission, the distance being three hundred yards in a crowd. He requires a new rifle, new ammunition, a whole new program. This involves a whole new set of problems to solve. He solves them—and barely escapes. But does that mean, assuming he is back on safe territory, he’ll have to reacclimate himself to the longer shot?”