A plot to steal the device seemed to be just the clever, subtle deduction for the cops to seize as Hale’s real motive. Officers would spend hours scouring the museum and nearby Central Park looking for him and examining the canvas bag he’d left. It contained four hollowed-out books, inside of which were two bags of baking soda, a small scanner and, of course, a clock—a cheap digital alarm. None of them meant anything but each was sure to keep the police busy for hours.

The complications in his plan were as elegant, if not as numerous, as those in what was reportedly the world’s most elaborate wristwatch, one made by Gerald Genta.

But at the moment Hale was nowhere near the museum, which he’d left a half hour ago. Not long after he’d entered and checked the bag, he’d walked into a restroom stall, then taken off his coat, revealing an army uniform, rank of major. He’d donned glasses and a military-style hat—hidden in a false pocket in his coat—and had left the museum quickly. He was presently in downtown Manhattan, slowly making his way through the security line leading into the New York office of the Department of Housing and Urban Development.

In a short time a number of soldiers and their families would attend a ceremony in their honor, hosted by the city and the U.S. Departments of Defense and State, in the HUD building. Officials would be greeting soldiers recently returned from foreign conflicts and their families, giving them letters of commendation for their service in recent world conflicts and thanking them for reenlisting. Following the ceremonies, and the requisite photo ops and trite statements to the press, the guests would leave and the generals and other government officials would reconvene to discuss future efforts to spread democracy to other places in the world.

These government officials, as well as the soldiers, their families and any members of the press who happened to be present, were the real point of Charles Hale’s mission in New York.

He had been hired for the simple purpose of killing as many of them as he could.

With husky, ever-smiling Bob driving, Lucy Richter sat in the car as they made their way past the reviewing stand outside the Housing and Urban Development building, where the parade was just winding down.

Her hand on her husband’s muscular thigh, Lucy was silent.

The Honda nosed through the heavy traffic, Bob making casual conversation, talking about the party tonight. Lucy responded halfheartedly. She’d grown troubled once again about the Big Conflict—what she’d confessed to Kathryn Dance. Should she go through with the reenlistment or not?

Self-interrogation . . .

When she’d agreed a month earlier; was she being honest or being deceptive with herself?

Looking for the things Agent Dance told her: anger, depression . . . Am I lying?

She tried to put the debate out of her head.

They were close to the HUD building now and across the street she saw protesters. They were against the various foreign conflicts America was involved in. Her friends and fellow soldiers overseas were pissed off at anybody who protested but, curiously, Lucy didn’t see it that way. She believed the very fact that these people were free to demonstrate and were not in jail validated what she was doing.