Interface

1

The Shallows

TAIKI WISHED HE COULD BELIEVE IN GOD, FOR ONLY A god could absolve him of what he was about to do. Reason was his faith, and it was that, along with the iron certainty of logic, that had urged him to his course. It demanded courage and the sacrifice of every tender feeling, even of his humanity, so that when he looked in the mirror, he no longer knew himself—and feared the thing he had become.

But he was willing to pay this price. Evil for a greater good. He had debated the principle over hundreds of sleepless nights. Now he was past all doubt.

But logic was a cold god. It could not promise forgiveness. It could not shield him from the horrors he had seen, and would see this night. It could not bind up the wounded places in his soul, or shoulder accountability for his crimes. It could only command. And if it destroyed him who did its bidding, making him the first and last victim on its altar, there was no ear to hear his protest.

Only one thought sustained him. That which he did, he did for love.

Ehhh, he groaned, as he rubbed his aching legs. Seven hours can be an eternity in the coffin-like space of a two-seater Electro Sparrow. He had long ago drunk up his liter of water and eaten a whole package of rice crackers—all the provisions he had brought with him. He had yet to take a bathroom break—an absence of even ten minutes would have been enough to let his subject slip. That’s why police always did stakeouts in pairs. But Taiki was alone—nothing to back him up except his cast-iron bladder.

He had stolen the Sparrow by preference because it was the most common self-driving taxi on the street. No one would give it a second look. From front to back, it was as short as it was wide, making it easy to back into a tight parking space, facing into the street, so he wouldn’t have to crane his neck to keep an eye on the hotel across the way. And, once his subject appeared, he could pull out either to the right or left, and not have to make a conspicuous U-turn.

In the pale glow of the streetlights, the peeling, soot-stained paint and cracking cast iron of the art deco façade of the Regency Arms were scarcely evident. The place looked almost distinguished, not what it was—a dive for alcoholics, fugitives, and stag construction workers. The subject’s studio apartment occupied the front corner of the third floor, with all three windows and the tiny bathroom porthole visible from the street. Taiki could see a shadow moving against the paper-thin window shades. The man was pacing, pacing as he had done for hours.

What is he thinking? wondered Taiki, with a twinge of pity. Does he know these are his last hours? Is he afraid?

The visibility of the apartment and its ease of surveillance were among the reasons Taiki had selected this subject. He was a big man, a jackhammer operator, who was in the peak of health. He lived alone. Neither drank nor did drugs. His habits were unvarying. Each day, he got home from work by 5:15. In bed by 10:30. Owned no car. Did all his shopping at the corner market. Every Sunday, he took a bus from SoHo to Brooklyn to attend an unlicensed religious meeting. That was the extent of his social life.

Taiki knew that tonight would be the critical night. He had transmitted the virus to this man two days ago, the expected incubation period. Today he had watched him return home from work looking shifty-eyed and agitated, with a broad-based, staggering gait. Exactly like a drunkard, only he did not drink. Taiki deduced that there had already been damage to the cerebellum of the brain. So the final outburst would not be far off.

He wished he could see through those yellowing window shades and hear what the man was muttering to himself. It was important to observe every symptom as it emerged. Science demanded no less. But hours went by. Tense, fidgety hours, without a sign of what was going on.

Staying alert was the biggest challenge. Because the Sparrow was notorious for its weak battery, he dared not play the dashboard radio. This was one of those rare moments he regretted his lack of a brain implant. Through the Interface, he could have helped himself to any of six hundred classical playlists, including a real-time concert by Andreas Morgenssohn, his favorite cellist. Instead, he was left to count the laurel fronds on the frieze of the Regency Arms and listen to the rain pattering against his windshield. An occasional draw on his pipe helped pass the time. He had filled it with Kentucky, a full-bodied tobacco with a high nicotine content and a smooth flavor. Real tobacco, not the drug-laced stuff people were rotting their minds with nowadays.

He glimpsed himself in the rearview mirror. Eyes half European, half Asian. Round, rimless spectacles. Black hair dyed streaky blond and combed straight back over a tall, beetling forehead. Nasolabial folds that were deep and almost vertical. A little blond soul patch decorating his square chin. He saw weariness in his face, and hardness, too. But these changes did not matter. He, Taiki, did not matter. The experiment was all. It was the culmination of months of thought and work. At issue was the very survival of humankind.

Finally, a little after 11:00 p.m., the lights in the apartment went out. Not for sleep. Taiki knew the subject wouldn’t be sleeping tonight. He’s going out. This is it. Sure enough, a moment later, he appeared at the doorway of the hotel. More moose than man, fearsomely tall, thick-limbed, bullet-headed, still dressed in his dusty work overalls and steel-toed boots.

Taiki made a quick note of the time in his pocket notebook. He wrote in German but spelled out the words in Japanese kanji—not the simpler katakana used to transcribe foreign words. It was a code of his own, indecipherable to anyone not fluent in both languages.

Expecting the Moose to take one of the cabs parked outside the hotel, Taiki reached under the steering wheel to hot-wire the ignition. But the man remained afoot, walking south toward Canal Street. He was listless, staggering, as if unsure where to go. Stowing his pipe in the cupholder, Taiki abandoned the Sparrow and darted across the deserted street, on a line of interception. He needed to speak to this man, to take the pulse of his mind. It was essential to know whether, even at this moment, he could still think.

Standing athwart the man’s path on the sidewalk, Taiki raised his hand in salutation. Do you know me, Brother?

Although they had met on a park bench two days ago, when Taiki had passed the virus to him, the Moose now gave a blank look with his gray, sunken, feverish eyes.

What is your name? Taiki asked.

The Moose answered—slowly but correctly.

What is the name of this street?

Ren … Renwa … Ren … Evidently it was as close as he could come to Renwick Street.

Taiki took his notebook from his shirt pocket, opened it, and wrote out a line:

CLOSE YOUR EYES

Please read this and do what it says, he entreated, holding it up. It was a task from the standard Mini-Mental Status Exam.

CLOSE YOUR EYES, grumbled the Moose.

Yes, that’s what it says, assured Taiki. Can you do that?

CLOSE YOUR EYES, the man repeated, louder, angrily shoving his hands into his pockets. The movement tugged at the flap of his overalls, exposing the brass-and-wooden handle of what looked like a Bowie knife.

The glint of that knife shocked him. None of the previous subjects had armed themselves in this way.

CLOSE YOUR EYES, the Moose bellowed again, shifting from side to side and scraping his boots against the sidewalk. His fists clenched and unclenched inside his pockets, evidence of an inward struggle.

Taiki closed his eyes to pacify him. See, Brother, there is nothing to fear, he said, opening them again. But he had seen plenty to fear. For an instant he’d had a vision of that Bowie knife dripping with blood, of the Moose smeared with gore from head to toes, eyes bulging with mindless rage.

But, for the moment, the subject’s agitation had calmed. His thick lips relaxed; his heavy jaw stopped twitching. Labile affect, noted Taiki, coldly, setting aside his foreboding over the knife. Executive functions impaired.

What will you do now? asked Taiki.

A dull pause, heavy breathing. It ended with a spark of animation. What God tells me.

How much of a man was left in him? How much of his brain was in flames? Taiki knew there was no going back, no cure. It would have been mercy to kill him on the spot. Mercy not just to him, but to anyone he would meet this night. But science had no truck with mercy. Taiki’s place was to observe, not intervene. No matter how terrifying, the experiment had to be allowed to run to its end. To cut it short would make the sacrifice of this man’s life meaningless and would betray the trust of those who had risked so much to support this vital work.

Yet Taiki was not without feeling. Forgive me, Brother, he said, as his voice trembled and his knees shook. I have brought great harm upon you. Harm to both body and soul. But you should not fear the Judgment you believe in. You are innocent of evil. It is I, and not you, who must bear the guilt for what will happen now.

Guilt was something Taiki understood. He had borne its bone-crushing weight for years past counting. Guilt for having poisoned men’s souls. Guilt over the deaths of those dearest to him. He had come close to taking his own life in despair, until a wise man pointed out that death would only make his sin permanent. Only by living could he find a way to undo what he had done.

Involuntarily, as if an invisible hand had thrust his face away, Taiki dropped his gaze. Can you forgive me? he asked.

I forgive, said the Moose.

Taiki covered his mouth in the Asian way of shame and stepped to one side. He felt the air stir as the Moose stepped past him. Taiki let him walk on, twenty yards or so, and then turned and followed him through the light, pelting rain.

Nearer and nearer came the pulsations of raucous music. Around the corner at Canal Street was a storefront window radiating strobes of light—yellow, green, blue. An old-fashioned neon sign read THE SHALLOWS. The Moose stood looking through the window for a long while, five minutes or more. Then he went inside.

Taiki followed. The place was packed—a Friday-night crowd. A mahogany bar greeted patrons on the way in. Glutted tables were crammed all the way to the back. A brass staircase led to a loft, where a hundred or more customers were dancing to the relentless drive of the music. Music to get drunk by, a paean to forgetfulness, an overture to loveless copulation.

Spotting a small free table near the wall in the front corner of the club, Taiki hastened to grab it. It was perfectly situated—close enough to see and hear everything, yet out of the way if things should get out of control.

The Moose stood at the bar, his gaze fixed on his own reflection in the mirror behind the ranks of colored bottles.

What’ll you have? asked the bartender, a stone-faced Jamaican with yellowish, no-nonsense eyes.

Do not look on the wine when it is red, when it sparkles in the cup, said the Moose.

Come again?

Woe to those who are heroes in drinking wine, and valiant men in mixing strong drink.

Hey, enough of that! Are you going to order, or not? If not—there’s the street. I won’t have you taking up space at my bar.

A nutcase, chuckled the Moose’s nearest neighbor, a parrot-faced man in a rumpled gray business suit.

It’s coming. It’s coming, thought Taiki. This is how it starts.

The Moose’s lower lip fluttered, and his cheeks flushed red. Suddenly he swung out with his forearm and walloped the beer mug next to him, splattering golden liquid and foam over the parrot man and toppling snifters and mugs and goblets like bowling pins all the way to the end of the bar.

Awake, drunkards, and weep! roared the Moose.

Out! Out of here! shouted the bartender.

I’ll teach you, you crazy galoot, said the parrot man, his suit now thoroughly drenched, as he grabbed the Moose by the bib of his overalls in order to punch him. But the Moose effortlessly tore free. A thwang—and the parrot man found his hand impaled by a Bowie knife against the bar.

For a cup is in the hand of the Lord, and the wine foams, bellowed the Moose, over the screams and curses of the parrot man. It is well mixed, and He shall pour it out, making all the wicked of the earth to drink it to the dregs.

The barkeeper reached for a hidden Taser; but with surprising agility, the Moose reached over the bar, grabbed him by both ears, and slammed his head against the counter. Unconscious or dead—Taiki couldn’t tell which—the bartender slid to the floor with a thud.

With a quick machinelike motion, the Moose yanked the Bowie knife from the parrot man’s hand and buried it in his eye. The parrot man waved his left hand, feebly, as if batting off a fly, then fell to the ground in silence.

The others at the bar backed away in terror. Retrieving his knife, the Moose began slashing wildly, driving them all toward the tables in the back.

Howl, all you drinkers of wine, on account of the sweet wine that is cut off from your mouth!

In seconds he had cut one man’s arm to the bone and sent twin fountains of blood spurting from another’s severed neck. As the seated patrons grew aware of the danger, they stood up, screamed, and tried to force their way toward the rear. Men and women clawed at each other to avoid the knife. But the Moose kept on slashing, as if mowing a field of wheat. The tiled floor turned slick with blood.

The Moose’s face was bright red and dripping with sweat. Flushing. Diaphoresis, Taiki noted, even as he fought off hyperventilation and an urge to vomit. The hypothalamus must be damaged. Or the autonomic nuclei in the brain stem. The Moose’s left hand was shaking violently. A seizure? No, he’s still conscious and purposeful. Perhaps a lesion in the corpus striatum.

One of the tables came crashing down as a woman, trying to save herself, leaped up but only overturned it. Two men charged the Moose, swinging broken bottles, but he disemboweled them in seconds. One spry young man leaped onto the bar and managed to slide past the mayhem and out the front door; his deserted date cursed him as he fled.

With the Moose blocking the front exit, the mass of patrons on the ground floor could only move backward, screaming and moaning as several were trampled underfoot. The Moose seemed aroused by their panic.

Why do you go on eating and drinking, you slaves to lewdness and smut? he yelled. Behold, an evil, an only evil, is come upon you. Now I will pour out my fury upon you and accomplish my anger upon you. None of you shall remain, nor of your multitude, nor of any of yours. Neither shall there be any left to mourn for you.

This is not the voice of a prole, a jackhammer operator, thought Taiki. He’s outsourcing, pulling in words from the Interface. Even now, his implant must still be working.

Screams ripped from a hundred diaphragms drowned out the still-pounding techno-rock music. Taiki himself shared the panic. Sweat came pouring down his temples. His pulse raced. He was breathing so fast, it made him giddy. He mashed his fingertips white gripping the edge of his table, just to keep from running out the front door. He had never foreseen or imagined such carnage.

But this is exactly what is needed, he assured himself. The world must see this horror. Only then can mankind be made to save itself.

He noted the time from a pocket watch—an antique in an age when everyone checked time directly against the atomic clock at the International Bureau of Weights and Measures in Sèvres, France. A minute and forty seconds had elapsed. Dozens of frantic 911 calls must have gone out to the police almost immediately over the Interface. The response time would be six to eight minutes, Taiki estimated. Enough for plenty more mayhem. He already counted a dozen bodies on the floor, some lifeless, some writhing in agony.

Then the Moose paused. He had worked his way to the staircase leading to the dance loft. Scores of people were crowded together there, craning over the top railing but afraid to come down. The Moose scarcely seemed to see them. With a blank stare, he turned around and around, as if unsure of what to do next.

He’s sending a query through the Interface, Taiki realized. But what could he be searching for?

The answer was not long in coming. Breathing heavily, the Moose lurched into motion, directing his Bowie knife against the padlock of a small locker underneath the stairs, from which he retrieved a canister of cleaning fluid. Taiki guessed that he had accessed the mandatory floor plan of The Shallows filed with the City Health Department, which would have documented where any hazardous substances were stored. Now, with furious abandon, he splashed the fluid over the walls and stairs, then struck a match. With a whomp, the whole staircase went up in blue-and-yellow flames. The people upstairs gave out a cry of despair. Many rushed down through the fire, only to be sliced to pieces by the Moose’s knife. Others jumped over the railing—a fifteen-foot drop that few survived. The Moose shuttled back and forth in a murderous frenzy, unaware that he himself had caught fire.

He has no sensation of pain, observed Taiki. The pain centers in the ventral posterolateral thalamus must have quit functioning. The whole limbic system must be affected.

The fire rapidly spread through both floors of the nightclub, trapping a hundred or more inside. Taiki heard a police siren in the distance. That’s it. Time to go. Stepping carefully to avoid slipping on the streaks of blood and entrails, he walked out the front door and into the cool evening air. Drops of rain mixed with his own tears bathed his face. Crossing to the opposite side of the street, he watched as police cars and fire trucks converged from both directions. Black smoke belched from the building, burning his eyes and the inside of his nose. Within minutes, there was such a crowd of emergency vehicles and first responders that he could no longer see what was going on.

He checked his pocket watch. Five minutes, twenty-seven seconds from the start of the seizure, he noted.

The end came quickly this time.

He stood for a moment, sniffling and wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Then he slipped into the darkness of an alleyway.

2

The Captain

THIS WAS GOING TO BE BIG, THOUGHT YARA AVRIL. IF IT didn’t destroy her, it would make her. It was the break she’d been waiting for.

She had just gotten to sleep when the precinct called with news of a multiple homicide. Details were sketchy, but the jitteriness in the dispatcher’s voice was unmistakable. Before the call had even ended, Yara was in full motion, throwing on yesterday’s clothes piled beside her bed and rushing off without her usual thermos of coffee.

On the six-block drive from her apartment, she used the Interface to access breaking-news feeds from three networks. Reporters, she knew, often beat cops to the scene of a crime.

In the images that streamed into her brain, she saw the charred interior of what looked more like a cave than a nightclub. Upset tables and broken chairs littering the ground floor. Blood on the countertops, blood on the tables, blood on the walls. A chain of homicide technicians passing black body bags down the stairs from a loft. A pair of white-shirted paramedics racing down past them, carrying a still-living victim on a stretcher. Yara’s premium-quality implant had an olfactory stimulator, and through it she could smell the smoke and the vague alcohol odor of the white pyro slurry that the firemen had sprayed over everything.

The voice-over of one of the reporters, Jericho Jones, with his breakneck staccato delivery, made every bloodstain twice as big, and he somehow found names and storylines for every corpse. Jones was an Interface star, running his own news stream at an enormously high subscription price. Millions paid into it eagerly, because Jones had a nose like no one else in the business, and he often balanced his raunchy sensationalism with shrewd, almost clairvoyant insights. Yara was shocked, for example, to hear him announce that she had been named to head the investigation—ten minutes after she had learned it herself.

But graphic as Jones’s stream was, it hardly prepared her for the sheer bedlam she met as she pulled up at the nightclub. Vehicles clogged the street, forcing her to drive onto the sidewalk to get near the front door. It seemed that half the city’s first responders were already there, swarming the still-smoking ruins. Thirty or forty firemen in yellow slickers, their hoses slinking through the double front doors like giant pythons. The dead stacked in ambulances for their last ride, to the morgue. Reporters with white armbands, almost as many reporters as cops. Blue uniforms milling about, more like shocked tourists than officers. Spotlights on tripods, cables crisscrossing the ground. People tripping on the cables and over each other. An almost-deafening babble of voices.

Chaos. Chaos reigning over her crime scene.

A shudder rippled down her spine. You’d better get control over this shit show—and fast. Otherwise it’ll run you over.

As she turned off her siren and got out of her car, she grimly tucked her blond braids under a red forage cap with a skull-and-crossbones decal, the insignia of the NYPD, Homicide Division. Over a plain yellow knit blouse and jeans, she wore a green blazer with gold shoulder stripes, a symbol of a captain’s rank. It made her instantly stand out against the blue uniforms of the street cops and the gray business suits of the detectives.

Striding through the light rain, she felt her stomach tense. Not from anxiety. No, she was an athlete straining at the starting gate. She knew this was no everyday homicide that faced her. The worst she’d ever had to deal with in her twelve years in the Division was a quadruple, a gangland firefight. But here dozens had met their end—instantly, practically without warning. The air was thick with ghosts, crying out to her for an explanation—and vengeance.

Spotting her blazer, a detective lieutenant, a young man with curly black hair, a stubble beard, and a gray suit too tight for his biceps, came running up.

Captain Avril, are you in charge?

Yes, she said, dryly, without looking at him. With her lanky distance-runner’s body, she knew that others took her for a tall woman, taller than she really was. Her thin straight lips were well made to check the slightest trace of humor.

The lieutenant gave her a timid look. It annoyed her. She preferred rottweilers to dachshunds.

Fill me in, she said.

It’s all documented on the case file and recordings. You can access it via secure script MXA2974033, including witness downloads.

It’ll take hours to go through all that. Just give me a concise presentation. Two minutes or less.

The lieutenant opened his mouth to comply, but not a word came out.

How long have you been on service, Lieutenant.… Crain? she asked, reading his badge.

F-f-four years as a mounted patrolman. In hom-homicide … three months.

Three months. A newbie. She smiled for a microsecond to buoy him up. All right, Lieutenant, take a deep breath and clear your head. Step away from the Interface and those hundreds of script records. You’ll be buried alive in all that information, and most of it’s irrelevant. I need you to think, not regurgitate. What do you know that’s important?

He slid his fingers under his cap, tugging at his hair. Uh, there appears to have been only one assailant, armed with a knife. Two-inch-wide blade, Swedish manufacture. Motive as yet unknown. A lot of religious babble, for what it’s worth. He randomly attacked anyone within reach, then set fire to the club. Forty-three fatalities, nineteen more hospitalized for knife wounds or trampling. Another eighty-four being treated for smoke inhalation.

And the assailant?

Dead. Burned up in his own fire.

Who is he?

The abruptness of her question made Crain’s eyes glaze over with fright. Yara had to snap her fingers three times to revive him.

Uh … Steven Marantz. Age thirty-six. Lived at 21 Renwick, just around the corner. Construction laborer. Bachelor, no kids. No arrest record. Not even jaywalking.

Did he frequent this club?

Um, um, I don’t know.

Did anyone recognize him? Could he have held a grudge?

Um, no one seems to have seen him before.

"Seems?" She hated waffle words. Either they had or they hadn’t.

We’re checking every witness. So far, no one knows him.

Check everyone, and then check again. And no one’s to be released from the hospital until they’ve been fully interviewed as well.

The hospital? He turned pale. Evidently neither he nor anyone else had thought of that angle. Uh, half of them are at New York–Presbyterian. The other half at Gouverneur. Of course, we’ll be sending people out promptly, Captain Avril.

Someone should be there already.

We don’t have the manpower. As it is, we’re going to be interviewing here all through the morning.

Tough. This isn’t a routine bar brawl, Lieutenant Crain. Forty-three deaths. Do you see all these people with white armbands?

Uh, reporters.

"Yes, reporters. They’ve already posted footage to the news channels. I accessed them on my way down here. Some of them seem to know more than you do. Believe me, by the time people start waking up, this city will explode with news of the most sensational crime since the ferry bombing three years ago. People will want answers. And if you can’t provide them, these fearless journalists will feed on you for the next day’s story. Police incompetence. Coverup. Political interference. Name your headline."

She closed her eyes and mentally completed a departmental requisition, then gave it an authenticated signature and filed it through the Interface over Channel 23, the communications stream for high-level public safety officers. I’ve just issued a request for twelve more detectives at this site, and another six to cover the hospitals. If they’re not here in fifteen minutes, I’ll want to know why not. Now get back to work, Lieutenant.

She stepped over the yellow crime-scene tape and entered the burned-out shell of the nightclub, the very heart of that night’s carnage. The thicket of uniformed cops gave way to her, each man stiffly averting his eyes as she passed. Yes, I know what they call me behind my back, she thought. I’ve worked damned hard to earn that reputation. But there’s nothing petty about it. I’m not a bitch, I’m a she-wolf. I’ll eat the heart of any man or woman who underestimates me.

Yara’s penchant for raw meat didn’t take long to show itself. Into her path stepped a man in a sleek blue pinstripe suit, flashing a cocky, almost contemptuous smile. From his triangle-shaped face, bold cheekbones and dimpled chin, she recognized him as Jericho Jones. He seemed surprisingly short in the flesh, no taller than Yara herself. His large head and wide shoulders made him look even shorter.

Captain Avril, what can you tell me about Steven Marantz?

Yara bristled. Where did you get that name, Mr. Jones?

Hasn’t he been identified as the madman behind this massacre?

Nothing has been concluded at this point.

Jones’s ice-blue eyes—deep-set and a tad close together—took on a troubled squint. So the police still don’t know anything, then? Can I quote you on that?

Yara turned to the nearest blue uniform. Get him out of here, she growled through her teeth.

He has a press pass, said the officer.

Well, I’m rescinding it. I want him and every other civilian out of this crime scene. No one gets closer than the far side of the street.

Jones, ignoring her order, pushed a step closer. Is Mr. Marantz alive?

I’d worry about your own well-being if I were you, Mr. Jones. I suspect you’ve illegally tapped into the police communication stream. That’s a felony. And drop that toothy grin of yours. It doesn’t work on me. You’re a charlatan, a second-rate play-actor. Come an inch closer, and you’ll file the rest of your report from jail. Assault. Interfering with police business. I’ll have your credentials taken away for good.

She turned and glared at the blue uniform beside her, who stood with his mouth agape. "Did you not understand my order, Patrolman … Ivey? Get him out of here—now. Get them all out of here."

Ivey turned on Jones. Hey, you! You heard the Captain. Out! Out on the street! All passes canceled. As he shoved Jones back with both hands, his movement caught the eye of other cops nearby, and they joined in herding the white armbands out of the building.

Even in retreat, Jones called out People want to know what’s happened here, Captain Avril. The public has a right.

Damn the public.

She knew it wouldn’t stand. Before the reporters had crossed the street, they’d be bombarding City Hall with indignant thought mails, decrying how the liberties of the press were being crushed underfoot. It didn’t matter that the Bill of Rights was long gone—and, as a part of it, the First Amendment. These reporters were a power in their own right. Everyone feared them, most of all Hizzoner Mayor Goddens. But they were running wild on Yara’s crime scene, and she was going to see that they got some taming. She’d let them fume for ten minutes or so, then walk over pleasantly and make a statement for the morning news feeds. After that, she’d let them back into the building, but only in relays of six, under police escort. Jones last of all—she’d show him. They’d gripe to each other, but the protests would stop.

The uniformed cops on scene were just as much of a problem. There were too many of them, trampling on evidence, getting in the way. Looky-loos, just capturing mental snapshots to pass on to their wives or their buddies back at the station. She needed to give them something to do. So she called back Patrolman Ivey, who had impressed her with the Bronx brass of his voice.

We need to set up a cordon of uniformed men on both ends of the block. You’re in charge. Keep the crowd at least a hundred yards away. No one gets through without my say-so. You have only a couple hundred onlookers now, but when the sun comes up there’ll be thousands. So make a show of force.

Yes, Captain Avril. How many men should I take?

All of them.

He looked at her incredulously, but her thin lips and cold squint forestalled all questions.

Knowing they’d resent her order, she swung her chest out, planted her fists on her hips, and paced amid the crowd of policemen, defying anyone to object or even dare to make eye contact. She breathed a little easier when she saw the men forming into platoons and, with elbows locked, beginning to push the crowd down the street.

Okay—round one. Chaos 0, order 1.

There was still much more to do. With the cops and reporters out of the way, Yara focused on a line of people—two or three hundred—in brightly colored slacks and dresses who were waiting in the rain to be interviewed by a handful of equally wet detectives. Though they had survived the massacre, many were likely to catch their death of a cold through exposure to the raw drizzle.

A dry command center was imperative. Next door to the burned-out Shallows she spotted a darkened appliance store. She decided it would do. Through the Interface, Yara got the owner’s Interface number and rang him up. It turned out he was already right there in the store, hiding in the dark, on the lookout for any threat to his merchandise.

Mr. Finkel, said Yara, I need to conscript your store in the name of the NYPD.

Try that insurance agency next to me. I have valuable stock in here.

No one’s going to walk off with your precious washing machines. There’ll be a dozen police detectives on hand.

No. I can’t assume the risk.

I’m not asking.

You can’t come in here unless you have a court order. Try it, and I’ll call City Hall.

"That’s your right, Mr. Finkel. And while you’re