Warren and Flash joined them in the kitchen. Yuri’s body was half in the kitchen, half in the living room. The splatter against the refrigerator had coagulated and had turned brown.

“Are you guys going to give us an explanation or what?” Warren asked. He was still exasperated.

Both Jack and Laurie held up their hands for him to be quiet.

“Look at this,” Warren said to Flash while throwing up his hands. “We come all the way out here, save their asses, and they treat us like this.”

But Flash wasn’t listening; he was preoccupied by his brother-in-law’s body. Yuri’s face was frozen in an expression of perpetual surprise, with his eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. In the middle of his forehead was a perfectly round hole the size of a marble.

Meanwhile, Stan Thornton came on the line. Jack quickly identified himself and then cleared his throat before saying, “I think you might be facing your biggest challenge. Find out if there was a false alarm at the Jacob Javits Federal Building around nine-thirty!”

“Should I do it right now or you want me to call you back?” Stan questioned.

“Do it right this second!” Jack said. “I’ll hold on.” Jack held up crossed fingers. Laurie grasped them and closed her eyes in prayer.

Jack could hear Stan connecting himself with the Fire Commissioner. During the momentary delay, he told Jack that he believed there had been an alarm, and that he’d been told it was a false alarm caused by an apparent malfunctioning smoke detector. Seconds later, the Fire Commissioner confirmed it.

“Okay!” Jack said urgently, trying to organize his thoughts. “Call someone at the federal building! Anybody! Ask if the fire annunciator panel has been switched off and if there’s been a sudden appearance of powder in the building.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Stan admitted. He used another telephone line to connect himself with rapid dial to the building’s security department. Moments later he was back on the phone with Jack.

“The answer to both questions is positive,” Stan said. “Apparently there’s fine powder everywhere. What is it?”

“Anthrax!” Jack blurted. “Weaponized anthrax!”

“Good God!” Stan exclaimed. “Where are you? How do you know about this?”

“I’m in a cottage at Fifteen Oceanview Lane in Brighton Beach,” Jack said. “There’s a dead Russian émigré on the floor. He was killed by a New York City fireman who’s a member if not the leader of a militia called the People’s Aryan Army. The Russian had built a lab here. In the garage is a pest control truck charged with more anthrax. There’s a laboratory in the basement with, I believe, a fermenter filled with anthrax culture. We’ve been imprisoned in a basement storeroom until just a few moments ago.”

“Good Lord,” Stan said. “Are you contaminated?”