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have some surveillance photos,” continued Russell. “Taken in Karachi, Amman, Kuwait City, Madrid, and Detroit. And now he’s on his way here. To our neck of the woods, sir.” He tried to balance himself as he hugged the files with one arm and pulled out a dozen black-and-white photographs with the other. He spread the images across Fairbanks’s desk, like a card dealer in Vegas. Fairbanks leaned forward, his eyes squinting.
    â€œWhat’s his name? Give me his name!”
    â€œSir, he goes by the alias of Akrim al-Dulaimi.”
    â€œWhat else do you have, Russell? Anything? Jesus H!” He gathered the photographs on his desk and was going to fling them at Russell. But Russell’s arms were holding the other files against his body, and all that would do is create a mess. So he tossed them in the garbage behind him.
    â€œBut, sir. Our sources believe that Dulaimi is a credible threat. And he’s having a meeting right here—”
    â€œI know what our sources think!” Fairbanks barked. He rubbed his throbbing temples. An anger-management coach taught him this technique. Visualize the pressure dropping, lower and lower. Down, down, down. Visualize it subsiding. But he couldn’t. He’s one of ours , he wanted to shout. The county’s undercover unit is hot on the trail of an FBI undercover asset. Let the meeting happen. There’ll be twenty cops and ten real people and not a terrorist among them!
    But Fairbanks couldn’t say these things to Agent Russell. Or anyone else. He couldn’t even tell the county police that they were wasting resources trying to bring an undercover operative to justice. At some point, they would either drop him or arrest him. As with so many others. Fairbanks knew that everyone jumped on judges for appearing so lenient with certain suspected terrorists. Half the time they get a friendly phone call from Washington at the last minute. “Hey, Your Honor . . . errr, you know that the defendant you’re about to put away for plotting the destruction of the United States of America? Errr, he’s actually in the Federal Employees Health Benefits Program . . . that’s right . . . yes, he’s very convincing . . . no, we couldn’t say anything earlier because it would compromise national security assets . . . thanks for understanding . . . just a heads-up . . . keep it quiet . . . bye now.”
    â€œStrike one,” Fairbanks muttered to himself. “Is there anything else?”
    Russell wrestled with another file as sweat gathered across hisforehead. “Sir, some messages from Colonel McCord. In Great Neck.”
    McCord! Another Frankenstein creation of the DHS community-relations imbeciles in Washington . They had printed up hundreds of thousands of laminated cards embossed with the agency seal and “Honorary Agent.” DHS local offices dispensed the cards to foster goodwill and encourage cooperation as the agency’s eyes and ears. Which would have been okay if the eyes and ears had included brains. McCord, for example. A retired paramilitary guy who treated that little card like a license to drive an urban tactical assault vehicle to defend the village pond.
    â€œSir, the Colonel reports on illegal aliens at Great Neck Diner . . . one, uhhh, ‘Middle East–looking’ gas station attendant at the Exxon, who he believes has infiltrated the gas station to blow it up. Also, a report of—and I quote here, sir—a ‘foreign-tongued’ family that moved into his neighborhood. The caller believes that they are—quoting again—‘hostile to US interests.’ ”
    â€œWhat language do they speak?”
    â€œFrench, sir.”
    Hmmmmm , thought Fairbanks. “Anything else?”
    â€œYes, sir. Colonel McCord reported seventeen instances of speeding on Soundview Avenue and one