He had actually attended the not-so-publicized ribbon-cutting ceremony with Dunning and the former FBI director almost fifteen years before.

Up the stairs and through the door of the huge center trailer a moment later, it looked like a war room. There were columns and rows of desks and computers everywhere.

Reyland looked at the huge screen that took up the entirety of the back wall. It was divided up into smaller ones that showed street traffic and various locales. One screen showed New York City’s Central Park. On another was Kennedy International Airport.

Center 11 usually had an alphabet soup of JTTF, FBI field agents, NYPD, Port Authority cops and New Jersey state troopers manning it. But today it was staffed with a small group of hand-selected counter-intel agents and contractors for a special covert counterterror training exercise.

Or at least that was what Reyland was describing it as in the official report.

Reyland turned as Emerson brought over a tall balding Hispanic guy wearing steel-rimmed glasses.

“Robert, you know Agent Arietta, right?” Emerson said.

“Of course. Edgar, how are you?” Reyland said, putting out his hand to the lanky Hispanic.

Arietta, who was rumored to be somewhat autistic, didn’t even glance at it or him as he called out, “Bring up array one.”

The patchwork grid of screens instantly morphed into one big screen that showed the parking lot of a small brick building on a suburban street somewhere.

“Okay. This is Eric Wheldon’s apartment building in Pelham, Westchester,” Arietta said.

“Where did Wheldon work again?” Reyland said.

“He rode a Middle East desk at Langley,” Emerson said.

“Is that right?” Reyland said. “I wonder how much he’s going to like getting rode in a Leavenworth mop closet after we get through with him.”

“We’ve been on it since four in the morning,” Arietta continued. “We were about to pop in for a peek around five when he came home alone with no girl. But the good news is we were able to get this with a shotgun mic through the crack in a window.”

“Okay. I can meet him tonight if it’s legit,” came a voice over the overhead speaker. “Okay. Okay. Get me a number. I’ll call him back with the location.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Reyland said.

“It means he’s meeting up with someone tonight,” Arietta said. “The New York office has been watching this joker on and off since his last leak came out at the Washington Post. We’ve been watching him for the last three months. Whenever he meets with people, it’s usually one of three locations.”

Arietta went to a keyboard and the screen suddenly changed into three side-by-side views of the city.

“Here at the Roosevelt Island Tram on the East Side,” Arietta said, pointing. “Or this diner here on Tenth Avenue in Chelsea or this hotel here down from Madison Square Garden.”

Reyland looked up at the already-congested pre–rush hour New York City vistas, the crush of cars, the stressed-looking people. The resolution of the images was remarkable. It was like he was standing in the flat-screen section of a Best Buy.