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computer.
    “We all are.”
    “We’re not going to be able to tell you much more than you already know.” He glanced down at the stills she’d started to organize, sighed once. “Confirming the time it began, how long it lasted, and the fact all of it was concentrated inside the place. You hear them screaming,” he said quietly. “You hear a lot of them screaming.”
    “I could tell you you don’t have to do this, any of this.”
    “You could.”
    “I won’t.”
    “It’d be better that way. The fact I own the place is a small part of it. Too small to matter.”
    “I don’t know that yet. It may be you were the target, some kind of revenge or grievance.”
    He passed an absent hand over her hair. “You don’t think that. If it were, why not select a place where I might be? Some restaurant where I’m holding a meeting, or even the lobby area of my head-quarters?”He walked to the window, stared out at the busy world of New York. “It’s not me. It’s nothing to do with me, really.”
    “Odds are slim, but I can’t discount it yet. I can’t discount any single one of the vics was the reason. Or that none of them were. Not that much time’s passed. Someone, or some group, may take credit for it yet. Send us a message, or more likely send one to the media.”
    “You hope for that.” He turned back to her. “Once credit’s taken, you’ll have a line to tug, a direction.”
    “Yeah. Even better will be if we find some screwed-up suicide note on one of the vics, or at their residence, their work.”
    He knew her face, her tones, her inflections. “But you don’t think that either.”
    “I can’t discount it, yet. It would be the best answer.”
    “And you and I, cynics as we are, don’t believe in answers handed to us on a platter.”
    She could say to him what she’d say to few. “It’s not done. I felt it as soon as I understood what happened in that place. Maybe before when I talked to a couple of the survivors. Those who lived through this will carry it with them every day. It’s pretty fucking likely each of them killed someone they know, someone they liked. Maybe someone they loved. If and when they fully understand that, how do they cope?”
    The cruelty here, she thought, was so bright, so ugly.
    “Killing because you have to, to protect a life, to save your own or others? It’s hard enough to live with that. We have to start notifications after the briefing. A lot of families will be grieving by morning. So, I think, for whoever’s responsible, that’s a goddamn blazing success.”

    He came back to her because she needed it, whether or not she knew it.
    “Did Feeney start facial recognition on the people picked up going out, going in?”
    “He’d put someone on that when I left. It shouldn’t be difficult to ID the two women going in, their faces are clear. Those going out will take a bit of time, I think, as the camera only caught partials.”
    “The women going in didn’t come out. They’re either dead or in the hospital. So they’re not going to be hard to ID.”
    He touched her hand, just the lightest of contacts. “Do you know how it was done?”
    “Parts of it. I’ll get into it in the briefing.”
    “All right.” He moved to her window again, stared out at the air traffic, the buildings, and down to the street. “When I was a boy in Dublin there were still some pockets of fighting, holdouts from the Urban Wars. Those who were too angry or entrenched to stop. Now and again there’d be a bomb, homemade boomers, that were unreliable at best. In a car, a shop, tossed through someone’s window. It was a fear you learned to live with so you could go on with your day-to-day.”
    He turned back. “This is more. Bigger place, more people, and a more terrible threat even than a well-placed bomb.”
    “We’re not calling it terrorism yet.”
    A shade or two of the rage she’d seen earlier slid back across his face. “It’s nothing but terrorism. Even if it