He pushed through the bathroom door, turned for the exit, and glanced at the teletype machine. White paper rose past its roller like a tongue. A chill fell down Ingersol’s back.

The message could have come from a hundred different sources. A thousand sources. He veered to his right and leaned over the machine.

At first the words didn’t place clear meaning in his mind. They read quite simply:

If you do not deliver the agent as requested, then another bomb will detonate. In Miami. A much larger device, which is already triggered. You have precisely twenty-four hours.

The Brotherhood

It was that word—another—that suddenly came to life like a siren in Ingersol’s skull. His knees went weak and that chill washed right down to his heels. He reached trembling fingers for the white sheet and ripped it from the teletype. He whirled about and ran from the room.

Ingersol reached the director’s office four stories higher in twenty-five seconds. Friberg was on the phone, his face white, his eyes wide. He did not look up when Ingersol shook the message at him. His mind wasn’t in the room.

“ . . . Yes, sir. I understand, sir. But that was under different pretenses. Things have obviously changed.”

He’s talking to the president, Ingersol thought. It’s happened!

Friberg spoke again. “Well, if he had one, yes he could have more.”

“He does,” Ingersol said. Friberg’s face was still white. Ingersol swallowed and lowered the message.

Friberg listened for a moment. “Yes, sir.” He then hung up.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, silent.

Friberg’s face suddenly settled before he said, “NORAD recorded a twenty-kiloton blast two miles off of Daytona Beach five minutes ago.”

Ingersol blinked rapidly several times. He sat in the guest chair, numb.

Friberg looked out the window, still white but otherwise expressionless. “Fortunately it was a bad beach day; no reported casualties yet. They’ve reported heavy structural damage on the beachfront.”

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“It happened. Get used to it.”

“What is the president doing?”

Friberg faced him. “What do you expect he’s doing? He’s going ballistic. Calling in the troops. He’s ordered the closing of all airports. The Europeans are already screaming about the fallout headed their way. They’ve got a squadron of F-16s on the tarmac and they’re screaming for a target, and now I suppose they’ll begin the evacuation of southern Florida. Like I said, they’re going ballistic.”

“You gave the F-16s a target?”

“No.”

Ingersol shoved the message to Friberg. “Well, you’d better. We’ve got another bomb.”

Friberg took the communiqué and glanced over the message. “You see, this is precisely why we can’t give the Air Force their target.”

“What do you mean? This changes everything! I’m not going to just sit by and watch—”