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grenade. When did you first notice it?" Agent Jeffers returned to the office.
    "I hate to interrupt, but I think we're ready for the reconstruction, Captain Drummond. So if you'll just step over here—" he led Drummond back to the window that overlooked the hangar "—we'd appreciate it if you'd tell us what happened."
    From his vantage point, Drummond explained the sequence of events, which Agent Durkey then repeated into a small walkie-talkie. On the floor below, a man in blue coveralls got up from next to Mrs. MacDowell— Drummond wasn't sure, but the man seemed to look relieved when he rose—and went back to the taped area that represented the toilets.
    "How long were you in the restroom, Captain Drummond?" Jeffers asked.
    "Not long. Two, maybe three minutes."
    Agent Durkey spoke into his handset, then looked at his watch. The minutes ticked by. "Now!" he said.
    A short, pudgy man in red coveralls stood up, blocking the aisle just as the man in blue stepped out of the imaginary toilet.
    Over the next two hours, the agents carefully pieced together a careful reconstruction of the attempted hijacking of the aircraft, with Drummond correcting any errors that he spotted. As they walked through the hijacking for what seemed to be the hundredth time, the AP with the bull horn entered the office.
    "Search complete, sir." Drummond could hear Nebraska cornfields in the young man's voice.
    "Thank you, Lieutenant. You can put them all back on board and send them to LAX." Jeffers turned to Drummond. "It will take close to an hour to do that, Captain. Would you like to clean up a bit before you leave?"
    Drummond glanced at his blood-soaked clothes.
    "Yeah, that'd be appreciated."
    "No problem. Give Nat your sizes, and we'll get you some clothes at the PX. In the meantime, I'll run you over to the BOQs." Standing, Jeffers picked up the hand grenade that Drummond had set on the desk.
    "By the way, you were very lucky, Captain Drummond. Very lucky, indeed. Do you know anything about explosives?"
    "Only that they're dangerous. Why?" he asked.
    "This grenade isn't a dud. It's designed to go off on impact. When you flopped down on it, it could very easily have exploded." Jeffers smiled. "Like I said, you're a very lucky man."
    At the Bachelor Officer Quarters, Drummond took a fast shower while Agent Durkey invested some of the taxpayers' money in new clothes for Drummond. Looking at the clothes Durkey had brought back from the PX, Drummond realized that his luck had run out. The chocolate-brown trousers were an inch too short, and Drummond checked the back of the electric blue-and-black shirt for the name of the local bowling alley before he put it on.
    The worst, however, were the white tube socks. Slipping into his black Gucci loafers, Drummond felt like a candidate for Mr. Blackwell's worst-dressed list. He made a mental note to take Special Agent Durkey's name off his party list.
    "I have to ask you to sign the receipt for the clothes."
    Agent Jeffers sounded almost apologetic. "And if you don't mind, I'll have to keep your old ones."
    "Sure thing," Drummond said as he scribbled his signature across the receipt and handed it back to Jeffers. He'd had the cashmere polo shirt for less than twenty-four hours, and it and the slacks were ruined anyway.
    On the way back to the jet, Drummond decided to ask about the well-dressed man.
    "Incidentally, who was the man—I assume he was a physician—who helped deal with the hijacker? I saw a limo take him away."
    Jeffers glanced at him sidelong, his expression betraying nothing.
    "You saw nothing, Captain," he said quietly. "I'd advise you to remember that."
    Drummond immediately shut up. Putting two and two together, he decided that the well-dressed man must have been the terrorist's target. And if the Feds didn't want to talk about it, that was fine with him.
    Out on the tarmac, the jumbo jet sat waiting patiently as the jeep drove Drummond and Jeffers along the runway access road. As it