“We're all waiting, Mr. President,” Trentkamp went on. “We're clearly past their stated deadline.”

“Have any of the terrorist groups come forward and claimed responsibility?”

“They have. We're checking into them. So far none has shown any knowledge of the content of the warning phone call this morning.”

Minutes had never seemed so long.

It was now 5:09… 5:10, and slowly, slowly counting.

The director of the CIA moved before the lights and cameras in the White House emergency room. Philip Berger was a small, irascible man, highly unpopular in Washington, chiefly skilled at keeping the major American intelligence agencies competitive among themselves. “Is there any activity you can make out on Wall Street? Any people down there? Any moving vehicles? Small-plane activity?”

“Nothing, Phil. Apart from the police and the fire department vehicles on the periphery of the area, it could be a peaceful Sunday morning.”

“They're goddamn bluffing,” someone said in Washington.

“Or,” President Kearney said, “they're playing an enormous game of fucking nerves.”

No one agreed, or disagreed, with the president.

Speech had been replaced by the terrifying anxiety and uncertainty of waiting.

Just waiting.

But for what?

Manhattan

At 6:20 P.M., Colonel David Hudson was doing the only thing that still mattered-that mattered more than anything else in his life.

David Hudson was on patrol. He was back in major combat; he was leading a quality-at-every-position platoon into the field again-now the field was an American city.

Hudson was one of those men who looked vaguely familiar to people, only they couldn't say precisely why. His wheat-colored hair was cut in a short crew, which was suddenly back in vogue. He was handsome; his looks were very American. He had the kind of strong, noble face that photographed extremely well and a seemingly unconscious air of self-confidence, a consistently reassuring look that emphatically said “Yes, I can do that-whatever it is.”