Here were a dozen punchy clouds reflected in the windows of the old town house early this Sunday morning.

Here was a hint of rain.

Here was the Wife standing in a bathrobe at the window, her white face surrounded by dark curly hair mussed from just waking.

And here was Stephen Kall, one block away from the Justice Department’s safe house on Thirty-fifth Street, blending into the shadows beneath a water tower on the top of an old apartment building, watching her through his Leica binoculars, the reflection of the clouds swimming across her thin body.

He knew that the glass would be bulletproof and would certainly deflect the first shot. He could place another round within four seconds, but she’d stumble backward in reaction to the shattering glass even if she didn’t realize she was being fired at. The odds were he couldn’t inflict a mortal wound.

Sir, I will stick to my original plan, sir.

A man appeared beside her and the curtain fell back. Then his face peered through the crack, eyes scanning the rooftops where a sniper would logically be positioned. He looked efficient and dangerous. Stephen memorized his appearance.

Then he ducked behind the facade of the building before he was seen.

The police trick—he guessed it was Lincoln the Worm’s idea—about moving the Wife and the Friend into the police precinct building on the West Side hadn’t fooled him for more than ten minutes. After listening to the Wife and Ron over the tapped line, he’d simply run a renegade software program—a remote star-69—he’d downloaded from the warez newsgroup on the Internet. It returned a 212 phone number. Manhattan.

What he’d done next was a long shot.

But how are victories won, Soldier?

By considering every possibility, however improbable, sir.

He’d logged on to the Net and a moment later had typed the phone number into a reverse phone book, which gave you the address and name of the subscriber. It didn’t work with unlisted numbers and Stephen was certain that no one in the federal government would be so stupid as to use a listed number for a safe house.

He was wrong.

The name James L. Johnson, 258 East 35th Street popped onto the screen.

Impossible . . .

He’d then called the Manhattan Federal Building and asked to speak to Mr. Johnson. “That’d be James Johnson.”

“Hold please, I’ll put you through.”

“Excuse me,” Stephen had interrupted. “What department is he in again?”

“That’d be the Justice Department. Facilities Management Office.”

Stephen hung up as the call was being transferred.

Once he knew the Wife and Friend were in a safe house on Thirty-fifth Street, he’d stolen some official city maps of the block to plan his assault. Then he’d taken his stroll around the Twentieth Precinct building on the West Side and let himself be seen gazing at the gas pump. After that he’d boosted a gas delivery truck and left plenty of evidence behind so that they’d think he’d be using the truck as a giant gas bomb to take out the witnesses at the Twentieth.