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echoes, of shadows and memories. Of ghosts.
    Originally, I had come to Europe on a hunting trip. The bastard who
shot Grace escaped the bloody resolution of that case. He escaped and went into the wind. As a going-away present, Mr. Church left me a folder full of leads, travel documents, and money, and, without ever saying so, his blessing.
    Ghost and I went hunting, and after many weeks we ran our prey to ground. There’s an unmarked grave on one of the Faroe Islands off the coast of Denmark. I pissed on it after I hand-shoveled the dirt and rocks over what was left of the body.
    It didn’t bring Grace back, but I believed that somewhere—maybe in Valhalla—her warrior’s soul approved.
    Ah … Grace .
    Damn it.
    Church apparently got tired of the silence on my end of the phone and plowed ahead. “Your current credentials will get you into the investigation. I advised the President and Prime Minister about your participation. And … I’ll likely be on the same flight as Dr. Sanchez. Do you want me to bring Jerry Spencer as well?”
    Jerry was the top forensics man I knew. He’d joined the DMS at the same time I did. His genius was in walking a scene and letting the evidence talk to him.
    “Absolutely. As soon as the ashes are cool enough to walk, I want Jerry in the smoke. It should all be over by the time he gets here, because at this point it doesn’t look like the fire department is doing anything but containment on this. It’s all going to burn down. What’s my play?”
    “Be available to the Brits. They’ll tell you what they need.”
    “Where’s Gog and Magog? Shouldn’t they be on this?”
    These were the two DMS teams permanently stationed in Great Britain. Gog was based at the Regent’s Park Barracks on Albany Street in London; Magog was hosted by the forty-eighth Fighter Wing at the Lakenheath RAF base in Suffolk. I worked with both of them on my second mission after signing on. We tracked a network of Iranian terrorists who were selling yellowcake by the hundredweight to terrorist groups. That’s not something you serve at birthday parties. It’s a uranium derivative used in the preparation of fuel for nuclear reactors. Look it up in Terrorism for Dummies and you’ll see that there are all sorts of things you can do with it.

    “Gog is dealing with a critical matter in Prague. Magog is in Afghanistan dismantling a Taliban bioweapons team. At the moment you’re the only senior DMS agent in the U.K.”
    “Swell.”
    “The London counterterrorist offices have both accepted my offer of your services.”
    “Why would they want my help?”
    “Because I briefed them on the Seif Al Din, Mirador, and Jakoby cases. I’ll send them a report on the Seven Kings, and will send all recent data on them to your BlackBerry.”
    “Good. You know,” I said, “of the big-event terrorist attacks we’ve seen—the Alfred P. Murrah Building, both World Trade Center attacks, the London subway bombings—they were all one and done, followed by a lot of gloating via the Internet. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll throw myself into this with a will, but unless this is one of our playmates, then I’m just another pair of boots on the ground.”
    “I’m no more psychic than you are,” said Church, “but I believe that there is a clock ticking somewhere. Maybe the Kings, maybe Al-Qaeda. Besides, terrorism notwithstanding, this is a crime and you’re a cop. Work the crime. Somebody has to have survived. Somebody has to know something.”
    “Any chance you can send Echo Team over here?”
    “They are out at Area 51 and—”
    “Wait—what? There’s an actual Area 51? That’s so cool.”
    Church sighed. “At times you’re as bad as Bug and Dr. Hu. Yes, Captain, we have an Area 51 and no, Captain, there are no UFOs there. Nor are any alien autopsies being performed there.”
    “Damn.”
    “It is, however, a classified area, and Echo Team is providing backup for Lucky Team out of Vegas and the intelligence