In addition to setting up a dedicated inter-agency communication hotline, Morgan explains that seventy-five extra federal agents flew in from DC to assist. They’ll be posted up and down the parade routes, both in uniform and plain clothes.

Infrared CCTV cameras have been temporarily installed around the French Quarter and surrounding areas. The footage will be fed, in real-time, through a state-of-the-art piece of facial recognition software developed by the NSA, known as EnVision.

Tactical drones—civilian versions of the kind used by American soldiers in Afghanistan and Iraq—will also be deployed to provide additional eyes in the sky.

Morgan’s voice has grown hoarse by the time he shares the final, and most chilling, component of the FBI’s security plan.

Eleven highly-sensitive “particle detectors” have also been installed around the city, on loan from Homeland Security. About the size of a loaf of bread, they’re designed to detect airborne radioactive particles.

Just in case—God help us—the terrorists are planning to set off a “dirty bomb.”

“Agent Morgan?” I interrupt, shooting to my feet. “Hang on. You’re really telling us there could be a goddamn nuke here in New Orleans? That—that’s madness!”

The audience grumbles in agreement. Morgan narrows his gaze at me.

“What I’m telling you is, there’s a chance. Slim, but real. And I’d rather us be overcautious than underprepared. Any other questions before we move on?”

I think, that’s it?

That’s all there is?

“Hold on,” I cry out. “That’s it? Morgan”—and I deliberately leave his title out as an insult—“you owe the folks in this room and the citizens of New Orleans the truth.”

“Look, Rooney, there’s no time—”

“Time? You’ve been wasting time! For Christ’s sake, what about Ibrahim Farzat, the Syrian refugee who was tortured to death? Who was with an Islamic-based charity group that’s a cover for a terrorist organization? An organization supported by a local businessman? Hell, yesterday I caught an Aryan Brotherhood member involved in the plot and practically dropped him in your useless lap!”

Morgan looks both exhausted and infuriated, and before I can announce David Needham’s connection, Superintendent Fontaine steps up next to Morgan like a baseball manager protecting his star pitcher.

“Rooney, that’s it,” he bellows. “You shouldn’t be here, not at all, despite what your former boss says.”

“But I—”

Fontaine holds up a hand, like a traffic cop trying to stop an out-of-control vehicle—me!—coming his way. “Special Agent Morgan has kept us all briefed on their investigation, including the little bits of confusion and misdirection you’ve come up with … which hasn’t been corroborated or found to have any merit. So before you slander a prominent member of our business community and waste additional time, I suggest you sit down and keep your mouth shut.”