“Yes. It was in Boston.”

“How many were there?”

“How many what were there?”

“Bombs.”

“One.”

“And was it the original device?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it repurposed? Was it altered in any way? Smaller than the one they took from Kiev?”

Calibrisi looked at the screen showing the FBI feed. The bomb was being lifted by two men. It looked brand-new, like a long stainless steel canister, very different from what the original bomb looked like.

“It’s different,” said Calibrisi. “Looks like a big soup can.”

Brubaker was trying to get Calibrisi’s attention.

“Hold on, Katie,” he said, covering the phone.

“Do you want to read this before Schmidt takes it out to the president?” whispered Brubaker. “We need to get this on the news right now.”

“Katie,” said Calibrisi, “I have to call you—”

“There are two bombs, Hector!” yelled Katie. “That was his father’s big idea. How to take one bomb and convert it into two. We killed him for the formula.”

Calibrisi stared at Brubaker. He hung up the phone, then hit another number.

“Control.”

“I need an immediate patch to that last overseas caller.”

“Hold.”

Everyone in the room stared at Calibrisi as he sat, eyes closed, waiting for the phone to ring.

“What’s going on?” demanded King.

“There’s another bomb,” said Calibrisi.

Silence took over the room.

“The president of the United States is about to take a victory lap,” said King. “I’m canceling this press conference.”

“Don’t,” said Calibrisi, still holding the cell to his ear. “The American people need to know what’s going on. The best thing right now is if the terrorists think we’re done. Let J. P. Dellenbaugh lull them into a sense of complacency. It’ll buy us time. And do not let him mention the boat.”

Finally, he heard a pair of beeps, then Dewey’s voice.

“How can I miss you if you won’t go away?” he asked.

“Whatever you do, don’t kill him.”

102

BRIEFING ROOM

THE WHITE HOUSE

Dellenbaugh entered the White House Briefing Room. He stepped to the dais, the front of which showed the seal of the president of the United States.

Dellenbaugh paused. Except for the rat-a-tat-tat of cameras clicking, there was absolute silence. His look was confident, calm, with just the slightest hint of anger on his ruddy face.

“Late this evening,” said Dellenbaugh, “an attempt by terrorists to attack the United States was stopped. The location of the failed attack was Boston, a place that holds an extremely important place in the history of our country, especially this time of year. We will have much more to tell you in the coming hours, days, and weeks. For now, it’s important that we complete our investigation before getting into too many details. But I can tell you that we do not believe this is part of a broader plot. This was a small group of individuals, acting alone.”

Dellenbaugh’s eyes swept across the crowd of reporters.

“I’m outraged that anyone would attempt to use the July Fourth holiday—a time families and friends gather together to celebrate the day our country was born—to hurt innocent people. Some people, I know, are scared. You’re asking yourself, what if there’s another threat out there? The worst thing we could do would be to quit, to cancel the parade, to not put the red, white, and blue icing on that cake Mom made. Because then they will have won.

“Tomorrow, with my family by my side, I’m going to barbecue. Then I’ll go to the parade in town. If you’re there, I hope you’ll come up and introduce yourself. I won’t march, I’ll watch, because on July Fourth, I like to think I’m just a plain old United States citizen. Oh, yeah, I’m going to get revenge on my brother-in-law for his victory over me in Ping-Pong last year, a match that, in case he’s listening, we both know was rigged.”

Dellenbaugh smiled as laughter burst out from the gathered White House press corps.

“This Independence Day weekend is already shaping up to be the best in my lifetime. Because today I saw what brave Americans are capable of. The fact that it happened in Boston, well, I have to tell you, there’s something mighty poetic about that. The place our country was born was tonight the place where freedom was preserved.

“May God bless you, and God bless the United States of America. Have a happy Fourth of July.”

“Mr. President, can you tell us anything more?” yelled a reporter.

But Dellenbaugh was already off the stage and stepping quickly down the hallway. As he rounded the corner, he came face-to-face with King and Brubaker, both standing outside the Oval Office, arms crossed.

Dellenbaugh had a big smile on his face. He ripped off his tie as he walked past them.

“There’s nothing you can say that would upset me,” said Dellenbaugh, entering the Oval Office, tossing his tie on a chair, then opening a closet and grabbing his fly rod.

“There’s a second bomb, Mr. President.”

103

EVOLUTION TOWER

MOSCOW

Dewey looked at Malnikov, making a gesture across his neck and shaking his head, telling him not to shoot.

“Why?” asked Malnikov, anger in his voice. “Fuck that.”

“There’s another bomb,” said Dewey, making eye contact with Cloud.

Dewey spoke to Calibrisi: “He’s going to die soon, Hector,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s bleeding out.”

“What happened?”

“He got in the way of a bullet.”

“How long do we have?”

“Maybe an hour. Two if I can stop the bleeding for a little while.”

Just then, voices echoed up from the elevator shaft. Both turned their heads.

“You need to get that chopper back here,” said Dewey.

Malnikov pulled out his cell and dialed Stihl.

Dewey returned to Calibrisi: “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Can you get him to the airport?” asked Calibrisi.

“He’s not going to survive a flight out of Russia, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“No, that’s not what I’m thinking. Just get him to Ostafyevo Airport.”

*   *   *

Calibrisi, escorted by Secret Service agents, stepped through the Oval Office and out onto a stone terrace, then walked through the Rose Garden.

On the South Lawn of the White House, the rotors of the Sikorsky S-76C were already slashing the air in anticipation.

He dialed Chalmers as he climbed into the cabin and the chopper flew into the dark sky above Washington.

“Hector,” said Chalmers.

“Is she still alive?” asked Calibrisi.

“Yes,” said Chalmers. “We bandaged her wrists. She’s stable.”

“Where are you?”

“We land in Moscow in fifteen minutes. You should know we’re being met by Russian authorities. They’re meeting us on the tarmac.”

“Which airport?”

“Domodedovo,” said Chalmers, referring to Moscow’s largest airport.

“Tell your pilot to take the plane into Ostafyevo,” said Calibrisi. “We need a few minutes before the cops take Katya away.”

“Why? I read the Interpol tear sheet. You stopped the bomb.”

“We stopped one of the bombs. There’s another one. We’re down to our last out here.”

“She’s in bad shape,” said Chalmers. “She cut both wrists. She lost a lot of blood.”

“You said she feels guilty?” asked Calibrisi as he glanced out the window at the Washington Monument, already lit up in red, white, and blue for the Fourth of July. “Tell her she’s already saved at least a hundred thousand lives. Thank her on behalf of the American people. Then tell her she’s going to get the chance to save ten times that number.”

“Will do.”

A minute later, the chopper swooped down to the roof of the National Archives building. Katie and Tacoma were waiting, Tacoma holding a cardboard box filled with files. The door to the helicopter opened. They climbed aboard, then the door shut and the chopper quickly took off.