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neuroscience, exobiology and esoteric communications devices. And a supervisor to whom Diana reported, but whose name and place in the tangled web of government was kept from her underlings, which included Flynn—at least officially.
    It had not always been this way. They had started out as part of the FBI. An alien cop had been attached to the unit.
    Now Aeon was hostile and the lid was on.
    Diana hung up and came back into the bedroom. “Go over to H Street. They’ll orient you and send you to the White House.” She paused. “The director’s strung, Flynn. He sounded like a scared child.”
    â€œDid he have any idea what he’s actually dealing with? I mean, given a weapon like that, it’s not a stretch to think aliens might be involved.”
    â€œYou’ll need to determine that.”
    Flynn drove through the evening streets of Washington, passing along H Street. Across Lafayette Square he could see the White House. There were figures on the roof, barely visible, but there. Every light that could be turned on was blazing away. Understandable.
    Secret Service HQ is a nondescript building on a nondescript street, in keeping with the low profile that the agency considers important to its mission.
    Flynn entered and was quickly passed by the challenge desk. He was using his real identity. There had been no time for anything else.
    He was taken up to the crisis center by an agent armed with a small pistol in an ankle holster and a Sig Sauer under his arm, probably with one of the new DAK triggers. In Flynn’s opinion, it wasn’t the best Sig Sauer and they should never have moved to it. The SA/DA version has only one trigger reset point, not the two of the DAK trigger. In heat, who’s going to remember which reset to use?
    The agent was left-handed, as Flynn could see from the positioning of the shoulder holster. As they ascended in the elevator, Flynn watched him in the reflection in the door. Carefully.
    The crisis center was smaller than he had expected, centered by a long oak conference table. There were five people present, all males, all armed. He recognized only one of them, the director, Simon Forde. He’d never met him, but he’d seen him on television.
    As he entered, nobody reacted, let alone uttered a greeting. In fact, nobody spoke at all. Their eyes were mean pins, ten of them.
    â€œI realize that this is an intrusion,” he said, “but I have no choice but to be here, just as you have no choice but to accept that.”
    â€œThis is Flynn Carroll,” Forde said. “He’s deep alphabet and he wants to sniff under our tails.”
    Flynn looked from man to man. “What I need now is access to the body. I need to see the remains.”
    â€œNo press,” Forde said. “You’ll be looking at a felony. Know that.”
    Flynn let his contempt live in his eyes. Forde glanced down at his notepad and moved his pen. In the privacy of his mind, Flynn identified him as the sort of person who can waste the lives of others in service to the rules. He would not forget this.
    â€œWe need to know something from you,” one of the other men said, this one young, his face civil-service bland. He had his job, he was good, he was marking off the years until retirement.
    â€œSure thing. Shoot.”
    â€œTake a look.” He threw an image of a young man strolling, seemingly casually, down a corridor with a file in his hand. It was the first time Flynn had seen Al Doxy, and his immediate response was that the puffy kid’s body language was a lie. The tight shoulders, the head thrust forward, the quick, stiff movements: This was a frightened walk.
    Then Flynn recognized the file identifier, and when he did he had to fight back any visible trace of the surge of surprise that swept over him.
    â€œDid you recover that file?” he asked, his voice carefully modulated to conceal his inner horror.
    â€œWe did not, and the