Maybe the fact that he was in a wheelchair had jarred him. But the man would have known that. The master of intelligence surely had been compiling files on everyone involved in the Moreno investigation.

Maybe the surprise, ironically, was due to Rhyme’s being in better shape than the NIOS head. Rhyme noted how benign Metzger looked: thin hair, scrawny physique, thick beige-framed glasses with a smudge on each lens. Rhyme would have thought a man who occasionally killed people for a living would be more grisly and sinister. Metzger had taken in Rhyme’s muscular form, thick hair, square face. He’d blinked, a cryptic expression worthy of Nance Laurel.

The man sat down at his desk and turned a gaze—this one unsurprised—toward Sachs and Sellitto. Only they were here; Laurel wasn’t. This was, Rhyme had explained, a police matter, not prosecutorial. And there was a chance, though slight, it could be dangerous.

He looked around. The office was pretty bland. Few decorations, some books that seemed unread—their spines uncracked—sat on untidy shelves. Some file cabinets with very large combination locks and iris scanners. Functional, mismatched furniture. On the ceiling a red light flashed silently, which meant, Rhyme knew, that visitors without security clearances were on the premises and all classified material should be put away or turned facedown.

Which Metzger had dutifully done.

In a soft voice, a controlled voice, the NIOS director said, “You understand I’m not saying anything to you.”

Lon Sellitto—the senior law enforcer here—started to reply but Rhyme interrupted with a wry: “Invoking the Supremacy Clause, are we?”

“I don’t owe you any answers.”

Breaking his own vow of silence.

Suddenly Metzger’s hands began shaking. His eyes narrowed and his breathing seemed to come more quickly. This happened in an instant. The transformation was alarming. Fast and certain as a snake leaping from quiescence to fang a mouse.

“You think you can goddamn come in here…” He had to stop speaking. His jaw clenched too stridently.

He’s had emotional issues. Anger primarily…

“Hey, chill a bit, all right?” Sellitto said. “If we wanted to arrest you, Metzger, you’d be arrested. Listen to the man. Jesus.”

Rhyme recalled, with affection, the days when they had been partnered—Sellitto’s, not his own, artificial verb. Their technique wasn’t good cop/bad cop. But rather smooth cop/rough cop.

Metzger calmed. “Then what…?” He reached into his drawer.

Rhyme noted Sachs stiffen slightly, hand dipping toward her weapon. But the NIOS head withdrew only nail clippers. Then he set them down without clipping.

Sellitto deferred to Rhyme with a nod.

“Now, we have a situation that needs to be…resolved. Your organization issued a Special Task Order.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”