As soon as Davies was off the phone, he waved his arms to get the room’s attention. “Listen up. We just got word from the Bryant Street Pumping Station over by McMillan Reservoir. They’ve found signs of tampering on one of their lines. Whatever happened over there, it was no accident!”

“What kind of tampering?” someone called out. It was the question I had.

Davies took a breath, then answered. “This does not leave this room. Handmade dispersal devices, presumably to leech whatever poison this was into the system. It seems to be contained in the second high-water district. That’s between Eastern Avenue and Rock Creek. The other districts are clear so far. We’ve got emergency testing going everywhere. Expanded security at all processing facilities.”

Davies handed it over to Assistant Chief Kilbourn. She pulled up a quick PowerPoint and ran everybody through a list of contingencies. Some were immediate and practical. Others were theoretical — from citywide water shutdowns to looting and riot control, even municipal evacuation plans and declarations of martial law. This sure looked like the “big one” that everybody was always worried about.

“No one’s saying any of these emergency protocols are going to become necessary,” Kilbourn told us. “We don’t even know if this is terror-related. But it’s essential that everyone knows what to do if, or when, things go south.”

In other words, we were on the verge of uncharted territory. On paper, we were ready for anything. All kinds of emergency preparedness systems had been put into place in the years since 9/11, with every work group, simulation, and special training the department could throw at it. But the thing no one ever wanted to talk about was that there were some emergency situations you couldn’t possibly prepare for.

Because you just couldn’t imagine them happening.

I LEFT THE room feeling like I was still basically unassigned – and also at a real crossroads on the Coyle case. I needed to know if I could accomplish something — and also, whether the kidnapping of the president’s kids could possibly be connected to the water supply emergency. The possibility had been raised by the FBI and the CIA. It was one of the first things I’d thought of when I heard about the reservoir problem.

I walked out to a stairwell for some quiet. Then I dialed Ned Mahoney’s number. When he didn’t pick up, I kept going down to the parking garage.

I got in my car and drove to Ned’s little Cape house in Falls Church, Virginia. If he was going to play hard to get, I was going to have to become more irresistible.

I’d been out to Ned’s for the occasional barbeque, but when Amy Mahoney saw me standing on her front porch, her eyes opened wide.

“Alex? What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said right away, which wasn’t exactly the truth. “I’m just trying to track Ned down. I need to talk with him, Amy.”