Neal's eyes widened as he read the screen. He looked up to pinpoint Jim, then beckoned frantically to him.

"Look at this," he said, stabbing a finger at the monitor. "This is real-time."

The alert, evidently culled and relayed from a police scanner, read, "Midtown South Precinct emergency biohazard response in progress 6th & 42nd 40th floor. Responders bring PPE."

"That's here, that's AWM's address," Neal bleated, in case Jim had missed that point.

Biohazard?

Jim inclined his head to rest on his closed fist, thinking furiously. "Get Will." Sending Neal to do it was a concession to the stitches in his shin, memento of his sprawl on rail tracks two days earlier. He pulled out his cell, but before he could press a key Tess materialized at his elbow.

"Jim, I've got the D.C. bureau on the line, they say Mac just notified them to take control at the top of the hour. Until further notice. What's that about?" She was clearly perplexed and waiting for Jim to clarify the situation. Across the bullpen, Kendra, Martin, and Maggie followed the exchange with interest.

The phone vibrated in Jim's hands as Will came to the bullpen, his face reflecting confusion. "What—"

"Text from Mac." He held the screen so that Will could read the message.

Bldg being evacuated. Control to D.C. Get everyone out.

"Bomb threat?"

"Could be. But I'm guessing—" Jim hesitated, unsure of the response he might provoke. "Some kind of contaminant. Maybe pepper spray or something like that? Responders are being told to wear personal protective equipment."

Suddenly, two uniformed security personal were at the bank of elevators.

"People—people, listen up. We need everyone to clear this floor. You can grab your purse if it's handy, but waste no time putting belongings into briefcases or backpacks. The elevators are all going down to the lobby. We need these elevators full and that means ten to twelve bodies each. The rest of you, head to the west stairwell. Let's go, people."

Will moved quickly towards the opposite stairwell where Lonny intercepted him.

"You planning to hike down 23 floors by yourself?"

The consternation on his face made it plain he had intended to go up.

"Whoa. The stairs are running only one direction right now. Down. There's a uniform on every landing and they'll turn you around."

"I'm only getting her voice mail," Will sputtered by way of explanation.

"She's got a lot to handle right now. Cut her some slack. She's probably waiting for you downstairs anyway. Get on the elevator."

Not quite convinced, Will nonetheless allowed Lonny to lead him to the bank of elevators and press him into the one with Maggie and Martin.

Below, there was noisy confusion as elevators emptied and a steady stream of people emerged from fire exits. The evacuees were met by a police cordon and shunted outside onto the cold, wet pavement. Police tape marked the perimeter and people were guided past it into the street, which itself was in the process of being closed with barricades. Lonny saw two police panel trucks and a knot of cops in mufti. He assumed it was a make-shift incident command post and, tapping Will to indicate he would return, jogged over. A few moments later, Lonny rejoined Will.

"Where's Mac?"

"Mrs. Lansing is over there. Maybe she knows." Lonny had prevailed upon his contacts with the South Precinct and now he knew; he just didn't want to be the one to have to tell Will. It was a cowardly deception.

Leona Lansing looked angry and worried, but her features softened slightly upon recognizing Will. "We've been Brokaw-ed," she spit out, "just like in 2001."

Will frowned, not following her.

"Anthrax."

He paled and sagged back. Of all possible responses, he had not foreseen this. "Where's Mac?"

"With my son. They're being contained and triaged," her tone making it clear she was bitterly quoting what she herself had been told. "They'll be medevac-ed from the roof."

Will's gaze shot up but the sky was empty.

Leona continued. "Someone couriered an envelope to McMac. Reese happened to be in the office when she opened it. She knew," and at this Leona broke off mere recitation and stared at Will. "Mac knew, or suspected, what it was. She had the presence of mind to have Reese kill the ventilation system and start evacuation."

"Where are they taking them?"

"No one told me, but probably Presbyterian, since it's their operations team that's responding."

"And then? There's some treatment, right?" He looked agonized.

She put a steadying hand on his arm and looked directly into his eyes. "Yes. There's treatment. We're going to make sure they're okay." He needed to hear this. Perhaps it would take some of the panic from his eyes.

Something occurred to her. "What's happening with the broadcast?"

"D.C. has it." MacKenzie had had the presence of mind to do that, too.

"I'll send someone to find you when I learn more. For now—go find your crew. You have a responsibility to them."

Completely unaware of it, Leona was echoing Mac.

He pivoted to look for Jim or any of the newsroom staff. He knew with certainty what they would, should be working on. They had to get on the air.

oooo

Millie was quarantined, but, because she hadn't been in the room when the envelope was opened, she was separated from Mac and Reese and not subjected to the vigorous decontamination efforts applied to them. She was even afforded the relative dignity of leaving by ground transport, albeit wearing protective clothing and escorted by two attendants.

Meanwhile, MacKenzie Morgan McHale McAvoy, acting President of Atlantis Cable News, and Reese Lansing, scion of the Lansing media empire, were sequestered in an interior tented room, clad in scratchy surgical scrubs, save for their shoes (which were encased in paper booties), and awaiting a helicopter to ferry them to the decontamination and treatment unit of NYPres. They had been divested of their cell phones and so sat in anxious but bored silence.

"What did it look like? I didn't even see it."

"That's not something to complain about," she said wryly. "Granular, like sand. Light brown. You really don't want to have been near enough to see it," she added, as close as she had come to acknowledging her own peril.

"How did you recognize it?"

"I wasn't sure. But I remember reading about the scare ten years ago. I mean, what else could it have been? It was either a prank or something incredibly bad."

"This is going to cost millions. Tens of millions. Decontaminating a whole fucking building. And then, what happens to us?"

She sighed. "I imagine we'll need new offices off site, at least for the short term—"

"No, I meant to us. You and me. We were in the room. What happens to us now?"

"Decontamination. Antibiotics." This conversation wasn't getting any better so she made an attempt at gallows humor. "Cremation, while effective, might be premature."

"Shit." Reese huffed and fidgeted. Then, seemingly apropos of nothing, he said, "Remember the day of the Gifford's shooting? You threatened to call security on me."

She nodded, lips compressed. This didn't seem like a particularly fond reminiscence and she had hoped for more comradely conversation, given their circumstances.

"I'm the president of AWM." He gave a thin smile. "What did you think was gonna happen?"

"I rather thought that one of us would be escorted from the building."

"Yeah, but which one?" he asked, bringing his chin up in a pugilistic pose. "You had to have known I would have called your bluff, McHale."

"McAvoy." She couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Whatever."

oooo

Gary had anticipated the need to document what was happening and was already taping with a commercial hand-held by the time Will found him. Tamara and Martin had set out to commandeer a more professional rig, particularly one that would afford live broadcast.

Jim clamped a hand over his free ear, trying to block the noise of the chaos around him, and spoke loudly into his cell phone. "We'll be able to transmit the tape in about 30 seconds." He nodded at Neal. "We're working on getting a local live feed. Yes, yes, Will's here, and Sloan Sabbith. We're going to do this from the street."

He ended the call and looked for Will. "Is there someone you know, someone you can, um, lean on to get us some equipment? All we've got right now is Gary with a Sony hand-held that is strictly tourist-grade."

Will heard the whoop-whoop of a helicopter and looked up.

"Will? Will? Did you hear me? Do you know anyone—"

Jim's insistent tone finally broke through. "Yeah. Let me make a call."

"Great. Sloan's standing by to go to air."

Will looked up from his call. "Me. I'm going to do this."

Jim's mouth dropped. "Are you sure? I mean, it'd be great, but—"

Will gave a dismissive wave and returned to his cell phone.

Jim grabbed Maggie by the arm. "Get Will a jacket," he ordered, now that he'd finally realized that in the confusion of evacuation the anchor was only in shirt sleeves. "Get something with the logo. Rip it off someone if you have to. And when you get back, stick to him like his shadow."

Maggie bobbed her head and went on her mission.

oooo

Will's contact at WNYE-TV was able to provide mobile transmission equipment from its storage facility, conveniently located at the Conde Nast Building, one block from AWM and at the outermost edge of the police barricade. Martin and Gary picked up the equipment while Jim worked to put together a production slate. Herb and Joey had been spirited away to a transmitter truck and were helping to coordinate a remote feed to D.C. Finally, after a hectic twenty minutes of miscommunications and false starts, Kendra cued Sloan with the throw from Washington. Sloan made the first live report from the scene while Will finessed the on-site commander, Deputy Chief Baxter, into agreeing to make on-air comments and expediting a statement to the media.

Elliot and Don arrived on scene a couple of hours later, having learned of the trouble at AWM while waiting in the customs line at JFK. Their arrival afforded breaks to Will and Sloan, not to mention Jim and his crew, who had shouldered most of the work of the impromptu broadcast. After the 10pm press conference, which ACN alone fed live to the press pool, Will was summoned by a Lansing assistant and he and Leona were finally able to head to the hospital.

They were hustled to a waiting area near the isolation ward, where they were met by two men in lab coats. To the side, a woman in a navy windbreaker loitered purposefully.

One of the doctors addressed Leona and Will. "Your son—your wife—the decontamination process is largely completed and they've been placed in a sterile area. We've started medication—"

"What medication?" Will shot back.

"An anti-bacterial. Ciprofloxacin." Pause. "You probably know it simply as Cipro. It has proven the most efficacious when dealing with inhalation anthrax."

"When can I see her?" Will interrupted.

"In a few minutes, please be patient. I would like to tell you specifically what we think we are dealing with. Anthrax is the acute form of a naturally occurring bacteria. It is not communicable in the accepted sense of the word, so there is no need for prolonged hospitalization. We will, however, need to hold them long enough to ensure a thorough decontamination and commence treatment. I think—oh, 72 hours for observation. The incubation period is technically a week, but symptoms would probably appear sooner. Assuming there are no signs of infection at that time, they are home free." His expression resumed a somber cast. "However, you should be aware that this is still potentially quite a serious episode. Pulmonary anthrax is the most deadly form of the infection, even though antibiotics such as Cipro have dramatically reduced the mortality rate. Pneumonia and respiratory collapse remain possibilities. It is vitally important that the antibiotic we've started be continued through the full course of treatment."

At this, the woman in the windbreaker took control of the exchange.

"Mrs. Lansing—Mr. McAvoy. I'm Special Agent Donna Drake. As I'm sure you appreciate, this matter is now a criminal investigation. You will be allowed to see and talk with your loved ones in just a few minutes, but first there are a few questions I need to ask. Please, be seated."

Will and Leona were unable to add much substantive information to the timeline of the attack. Leona's information had come entirely from in-house AWM security and they had almost certainly been debriefed by now.

"Are you aware of any organization or individual that posed a special threat either to Ms. McHale or to ACN?"

Leona snorted. "I'm sure you've read the papers. A few months ago we reported a fictitious story that accused the military of using chemical weapons on civilians. Since then, ACN has been under fire by ultra-conservatives, veterans groups, most of Congress, and the entire editorial board of the New York Times. Pick your poison."

"There was something—an incident last week," Will said. "One of my producers wound up on the tracks of the D.C. Metro train. There was a witness who said he had been pushed."

Leona's eyes flashed. "I didn't know about this—"

"Ms. McHale mentioned this incident. I have to tell you, though, that according to the Metro police, the witness has been discredited."

"Why?"

"He worked for a defense contractor. There was a confrontation at work and he had been let go that day."

"That shouldn't disqualify his testimony," Will remonstrated, lapsing into prosecutorial language.

Drake looked knowing and spoke softly. "He isn't credible. Trust me on this." She put an end to the discussion. "Has ACN, to your knowledge, received any threats that suggested a biohazardous material such as anthrax?"

"Check with our blogger. Neal Sampat. He's usually the one who sees these things on the internet, Twitter or whatever." Will ran a hand through his hair. "Can I see my wife now?"

Mac was in a hospital room that seemed a little emptier and more sterile looking than most. It had a large glass window that looked into an anteroom and she stood in front of it. Will was on the other side.

She looked wan and tired but forced a smile. She could see that he was struggling. "Hi." She gestured at the glass between them. "I have a new appreciation for tropical fish in aquariums."

"I'm sorry," he said, softly. "I'm so sorry, Kenz. I'd do anything to change places with you, you know that."

"I do know that." Pause. "I saw the coverage, some of it. You were the best, Will. You and Sloan. Tell everyone they did well, really well."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I brought all this down—I was the one who kept riling the loonies, kept baiting them. It should have been me."

"Billy, stop. Let's not do this now." She put her hand on the glass. "This is just an—inconvenience. Takes me out of action for a few days. That's all. Send me my MacBook and I'll call this a working holiday."

"It's more than a fucking inconvenience, Mac. Someone evil took a shot at you." He put his hand on the glass, mirroring hers.

"You know, what's interesting is that the envelope came addressed to me by name. MacKenzie McHale. I think that if it had been one of the nuts who've been sending you threats, that it would have been addressed to MacKenzie McAvoy."

"So maybe it was someone who knew you?"

"I think that's what the FBI believes."

"Who then? Dantana?"

She gave a short laugh. "No. He may be at the bottom of the barrel, ethically-speaking, but I can't conceive him doing something like this. He wouldn't have the imagination to do this—the anger to do this. And, in any event, how on earth could he find access to this—this stuff?"

"They want to keep you three days for observation."

"So I've been told." She gave another uncertain smile. "Well. The decontamination has been a rather unnerving process. Mani and pedi with betadine solutions and a few minutes under a UV light that turned the outermost layer of my skin to ash. Not to mention, farewell to my favorite Louboutins."

"Well." He swallowed. "Mac, I—"

"Will, we're going to get through this. There are drugs for this and the drugs work." She tried to radiate a positive demeanor. "I love you. Now, go home and get some sleep."

oooo

Four things of importance happened on Monday.

First, because the AWM building was still off-limits, considered a crime scene as well as a contaminated site, ACN's New York operations had been temporarily shifted to WNYE, an independent educational channel. The majority of evening programming was still coming from the Washington bureau, owing to New York's lack of organic assets, but the Sunday morning show became the test platform for a cobbled together effort.

Second, the FBI released a public statement to the effect that the anthrax used was of organic origin, meaning it was considered of insufficient potency to be dangerous to large numbers of people. This went a great way toward calming public concern and expediting the investigation and cleanup of the AWM tower. It did nothing by itself, however, to mitigate the potential threat to the three known exposed individuals.

Third, there was a small editorial in The New York Times:

Fourth Estate Punches Through Fourth Wall

Fact trumped fiction on Friday last as Atlantis Cable News grappled with terrorism similar to that which struck NBC in 2001. What was novel in this case is that it played out in real time, before the national audience. Not since the morning of September 11, 2001, has the nation been so riveted by an unfolding story. News Night anchor Will McAvoy and economist-cum-pinch-hitter Sloan Sabbith worked the street outside the AWM tower, buttonholing authorities and generally trying to articulate the facts of a horrifying and still-developing story. Along the way, the beleaguered ACN, dirtied recently by a scandal over sloppy reporting, partially redeemed itself, demonstrating editorial restraint, resourcefulness, resilience, and professional aplomb. The focus of the on-scene players is all the more laudable as two of their company, acting news chief MacKenzie McHale and corporate president Reese Lansing, were among the ostensible victims. If we and other media outlets were justifiably outraged weeks ago by the charges ACN lobbed at the Pentagon (and later retracted) over the alleged use of sarin, we may be heartened, even admiring, of Friday night's poised on-air performance by McAvoy and Company, in which reporting was concise and without sensation. We can only hope journalistic ethics have returned to the forefront. Well done.

Fourth and lastly—as at least one television economist and one corporate mogul had intuited— AWM stock sank like a freight elevator to hell. At the opening bell, the stock was $43.79; by closing, it had barely clawed back to a shaky $30.12.

oooo

On Tuesday, following the FBI statement and with considerable pressure exerted by Leona Lansing, portions of the AWM building were re-opened for use. Floors 25 and below, which had ventilation that could be isolated from the system servicing the higher floors, could be occupied. Most AWM employees approached return to the building with trepidation; after all, anthrax exposure was a complicated and irrevocable prospect. Many of them continued to opt for telecommuting or use of off-site offices. The floors above 25 were still being minutely decontaminated and examined. ACN's broadcast programming control was finally shunted back to New York, although D.C. was brimming with self-congratulatory excess at having had the spotlight for the weekend.

News Night and Right Here both intended to return to live broadcast on Tuesday night, and the two production staffs held a common pitch meeting, to ascertain a consistent, structured, and unified recap of the anthrax threat.

"First, we've got the Syrian counter-attack in Rif Dimashq," Don opened. "Next, exposition of anthrax. Sorry, guys, we're still a story. Jim?"

"Medical analyst Janice Gray. She'll be here live." Jim capped the dry erase marker. "She's going to cover symptoms, communicability, and mortality."

"The big three," Don muttered. "Then, push-back on Morsi in Egypt—"

"And Title Five." Will weighed in.

Don sighed. "We're sure we want to continue this?"

"Title Five of the Patriot Act—also known as, Removing Obstacles to Investigating Terrorism. It permits the sharing of data acquired through electronic surveillance. So the NSA can snoop through your electronic garbage and share it with law enforcement—"

"My garbage they can have," Don said.

"People need to hear this, Don. Americans need to know what's being done in their name."

oooo

Also on Tuesday, following considerable back-and-forth discussions between hospital authorities, federal investigators, and the CDC, Millie Epperson, Reese Lansing, and MacKenzie McHale McAvoy were released from the biomedical containment ward of NYPres.

Will met Mac and pressed her to him for the drive home.

"Mac." Will's voice was low but firm. "You are staying home today. And tomorrow."

"Will, I've been bored out of my skull for the last three days, please let me—"

"No. Absolutely not. I can give you a dozen reasons why. There's nothing you can do there that you can't do at home just as effectively. Teleconference or skype your heart out. Reese and Millie won't be back to work yet. You don't even have an office right now; everything above the 25th floor is still sealed up tight."

"Jim and I can share—"

"No." He tilted her chin so he could look directly into her eyes. "Even though all the bright young twenty-somethings we work with know or should know that anthrax isn't communicable, there are other people to consider—perhaps not as well-educated but who desperately want to come to work because they need a paycheck. Janitors. Clerks. Security personnel. And they might have a little residual fear if they think they can 'catch' anthrax from someone who's been exposed. The incubation period is only another 48 hours. Wait for the all-clear. Please, Mac. Don't fight me on this."

She seemed to acquiesce, but by the time they arrived home it was clear her silence only marked the end of round one.

"Leona will need help coordinating the cleanup—" she insisted.

"Trust me, the professionals are already on this one. CDC. FBI. Anyway, Leona's got her hands full in the boardroom right now. You can coordinate to your heart's content from right here in our living room."

She glared before surrendering. "I'm made of stronger stuff, you know."

"I know. No one sees this as a character flaw."

"I'll be back Friday."

"Of course. No symptoms in a week and you 'll be in the clear." He leaned and kissed her. "Now, go take your Cipro, and I'll see you in a few hours. Someone in the family has to go earn some money—"

"Watch it, pretty boy."

oooo

He returned promptly after the show and they had a late supper of stir fried chicken and vegetables while sitting on the sofa, watching Elliot's show.

"How about a week in London over Christmas? As a belated honeymoon?"

She made a face. "Do you know what London is like in December? Incredibly like New York, except with more rain and even less daylight. How about Bermuda?"

"What side of the road do they drive on?"

"Forget it."

He eyed her plate. "More?"

"A little. I'll get it. Non-hospital food tastes great. Plus the side effects of the Cipro are abating and I feel hungrier." She took both plates and returned with another serving. "How about Spain? It's sunny and warm."

"I've never been to Spain—"

"No, no, don't—"

"—But I kind of like the music."

She groaned. "How many decades have you waited for that opportunity?"

He put down his plate and reached for the iPad. "I'm on it. Spain. Where—Barcelona?"

"I was really thinking of Malaga. Warmer, smaller, fewer language barriers. Beaches."

While he researched, she took away the plates and refilled their wine glasses.

"I'll be back in your ear next week or the week after, you know."

He looked up. "Oh? Reese found someone?"

"Jonathan Davies. From Associated Press."

"Never heard of him."

"He's got a good reputation."

"You going to miss it?"

"I wouldn't have thought so—three weeks ago, of course, I never even considered such a possibility. But—yeah. It's been interesting, the variety, the sheer scope of things as seen from Charlie's office. Of course, it will be nice to get back to you and Jim and the control team."

He grunted, seemingly focused on the web site. Then, he looked up from the tablet. "The other night—why did you text Jim and not me?"

"What?"

"Last Friday. I kept trying to reach you. You sent Jim—"

"I told Jim to evacuate the staff." She adopted a pedantic tone. "I could be one-way with Jim. You would have argued with me."

"Damn straight." Then he added, "That's because I'm supposed to be the one protecting you."

"Will." She shook her head indulgently.

"You should have called or texted me, not Jim."

Surprised by his vehemence, she murmured, "I've been in dangerous places before. I've learned I can't rely on protection from everything—"

"You have an obligation to me, MacKenzie. This isn't hurt feelings, or me being hypersensitive about some unimportant something. You have to rely on me." He swung around on the sofa so that he was facing her. "Your self-reliance is admirable, except when it comes to me.

"Do you know the last thing Charlie said to me, when I visited him there at the hospital? He told me to be accountable. I didn't know what the fuck he was talking about. I wasn't even sure I heard him correctly. Accountable for the show? Content? Ratings? Stockholders? But I don't think that's what he meant. I've thought about it a lot and I've come think he was telling me to be accountable to you. Answerable to you. Understand my obligation to you.

"I promised to take care of you. I'm not going to slough that off. And I won't let you slough off your responsibility, either. When it comes to me, your wings are clipped, lady."

oooo

Indefatigable Mac, inexhaustible Mac sailed back into work Thursday morning, having argued and dispatched all of Will's reasons for staying at home another day. She tried to allay union concerns in a conference call, soothed Reese's worries about the expense of the cleanup, and chaired a technology meeting focusing on live streaming. By early afternoon, she was seated at the restaurant table when Sloan arrived.

"Sorry I'm late," Sloan said, sitting down. "You look good, Kenzie. I mean, after everything. How's Will?"

"Worried. You know."

"He was terrified last week. Freaking out of his mind. There's no way he would have gone on the air Friday night, if there had been a chance for him to see you."

Mac shook her head. "Everyone was better off with him at ACN, even on the sidewalk in the rain. At the hospital, there was just a lot of confusion and waiting, and Will would have been knocking heads together—and I still would have been in isolation and not been able to see him for hours."

The server came with a bottle of chardonnay and glasses.

"I hope you don't mind."

"As long as we're not implying the job is driving you to drink."

"No. Actually, it's a bit of a bribe, because I'm about to make a pitch."

They ordered their lunch then Mac returned to her point. "Jane Barrow is leaving her spot, leaving ACN entirely. Not the worst thing to happen to us, by the way. I know you were expecting that you'd move up to anchor, perhaps bridging Will and Elliot, but I've decided to let Terry keep the spot for now and pull someone else for Jane."

"Oh." Sloan bit back disappointment and a little humiliation. She thought she'd proven herself—thought she'd made herself an asset to ACN. It hurt to realize she wasn't, and it hurt more to have the news delivered by her friend.

Mac interrupted the other woman's thoughts. "Sloan. Don't take that the wrong way. You've done a great job—you've been great as a relief anchor for both Elliot and Will. You were the linchpin of the broadcast last Friday night.

"Reese and I had time to talk about a new direction for ACN. We had a lot of time to talk, actually, more than either of us ever would have wanted," she added as an aside, smiling. "I think he's found a permanent replacement for Charlie, but I wanted to push for this while I still could. Anyway, he's given the go ahead to develop a financial news channel, a la CNBC or Bloomberg. We want you to be the cornerstone and we want to go to air beginning February. Atlantis Financial News, AFN. How about it?" She paused to gauge Sloan's reaction. "Pick your staff. If you want to poach anyone from News Night—well, I'll do what I can to smooth it over with Will." Mac's eyes crinkled in pleasure at the news she was delivering.

"You're kidding—" Sloan's face registered astonishment and she sputtered with pleasure. "This could be so—I know some people you'd want to have on the air—and we could devote an hour a day to muni bonds, only munis—and a live segment from the CBOT—'

"HR is putting together an offer. It won't be what Blackrock would have paid you, but you'll get the satisfaction of building something from the ground up. Plus, I think Reese is inclined to sweeten the offer with AWM stock options—"

"Not worth what they were this time last week," Sloan noted wryly.

"Not to mention wardrobe."

Sloan looked momentarily confused.

"Versace. Dior. Valentino."

"Where do I sign?"

oooo

A news story equal in import to the anthrax story but subtler began to emerge the following week, when Neal noticed a pattern in various Tweets and low-level news alerts. Spontaneous data outages of government web sites moved quickly from coincidental to calculated, and it became apparent that they were toppling like dominoes. Large swaths of public access web sites belonging to the Executive and Legislative branches—including the Departments of Interior, Agriculture, Veteran's Affairs, Treasury, Commerce, Labor, OMB, Energy—were being subjected to Distributed Denials of Service.

"This is massive," Neal exulted. "Everything—"

Mac watched the screen over Neal's shoulder and instinctively corrected him. "Not everything. There's still at least a half dozen. And Justice and Defense haven't been compromised."

"Yet," Neal finished.

"Perhaps." MacKenzie wasn't convinced. "Perhaps they have better cyber security," she allowed, "but perhaps they would be too provocative. Perhaps they would only gum up the message, whatever it might be."

"The message." Neal rocked back in his chair and thought for a moment. He looked startled by the conclusion he reached. "Mac, that's it. It might be Anonymous.

"Well, anonymity will serve whoever it is well when federal law enforcement—"

"No, Anonymous. The group of on-line vigilantes. Remember, with the Guy Fawkes mask? It's a collective of computer hackers who strike against what they perceive as censorship. They led a cyber-attack in 2010 against the major credit card companies, in retaliation for discontinuing to process donations to WikiLeaks; before that, there was the clash with the Scientologists." In his sudden enthusiasm, he rose and began moving his hands. "Anyone can join, all they have to do is claim affiliation. Anonymous has never shown an interest in damaging public infrastructure or putting the general public at risk. Look at the federal agencies without the denial of service. Transportation. Education. Health and Human Services. Housing. They're all public service-oriented."

"I can't imagine Justice and Defense would be viewed by hackers as public service-oriented," she reminded him.

He turned his palms up and shrugged. "Perhaps you're right, and those agencies just have too much protection for a cyber-attack. In fact—perhaps it's happening right now, but it just isn't as easy a nut to crack as the others."

"Hmm." She rocked back. "Well, stay on it."

Two hours later, he was in her office, bristling with excitement.

"The Justice web site has gone down. Server overload. Mac, this is a coordinated attack. And there's speculation—"

"Go on," she prompted, still dubious.

"That it's related to us. To ACN."

She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping Neal had drawn the wrong conclusions. ACN didn't need more notoriety.

"Check the hashtags #ACNincident and #somethingbiganon."

oooo

Mid-morning the following day, during the first rundown meeting, Will's phone vibrated.

Caller blocked.

He normally let blocked calls roll over to voice mail. More often than not, they were wrong numbers, telephone solicitations (political, charitable), or butt calls. Some of his contacts at the Department of Justice and at the city prosecutor's office were blocked. But the relative infrequency of such calls nagged at him to take this call.

Will left the conference room, answering on the third ring.

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. "McAvoy. It's time for the finale of this piece, don't you think?"

"Who is this?"

"You don't need to know my name. You just need to know who I am—and I am the officious villain of your piece." The voice paused. "Come on over and let's chat. Fifth and 33rd. Suite 2525."

"Will?" Jim hung out the conference room door. "Everything all right?"

He took several long seconds to answer. "Yeah. Jim, I've got to go out. If I'm not back in a couple of hours, have Sloan take the show."

Will went to his office, reached for his leather jacket, and started for the door. He hesitated. Then he turned back, grabbing at the gray Armani that hung behind the door.

The voice on the other end of the phone needed to understand who he was, too.

oooo

Suite 2525 was an unremarkable office front. Once through the door, it looked like a generic professional office: waiting area, reception desk behind sliding frosted glass, a long corridor of closed doors. Will rapped at the glass.

"Mr. McAvoy." The young woman betrayed no hint of recognition; Will immediately knew being greeted by name was owing to his having been expected, rather than News Night celebrity. "Follow me, please."

She led him three doors down and opened the door, careful to remain in the corridor herself.

The room was appointed with only a desk and three chairs. Two open document boxes sat on the floor, piled to overflowing with papers.

"Enjoying your Howard Beale moment, McAvoy?" The man, a decadent middle-aged sort in a shirt and tie, moved papers around on his desk.

"Who—?"

"I told you, my name isn't important. You wouldn't recognize it. Call me Dave, if that works for you." He gestured to a chair in front of the desk. "You might as well get comfortable."

Will dropped stiffly into the chair.

Dave put his fingertips together. "Well. I imagine the first topic you'll want to talk about is Shep Pressman."

"Yeah, let's start with him."

"Not surprisingly, he denies both incidents. Pushing Harper onto the rails and the envelope couriered to your wife. The first may have legitimately been simply the press of the crowd. Harper may have fallen. He told the police that he didn't recall having been pushed."

"There was a witness—"

"That so-called witness has some severe credibility issues: he worked for a contractor and his clearance had been revoked over allegations of domestic abuse. He'd just returned from threatening his former supervisor when he turned up as the sole witness to Harper tumbling onto the rails. Granted, Pressman was out of his office that day and has no good alibi for his whereabouts…" His voice trailed off. "But there's nothing conclusive.

"The second incident, however, the one with Lansing and McHale and the anthrax—that was, if I may say, amateurish in a singularly professional way."

"I don't know what the fuck you're saying."

Dave leaned forward. "Weaponized anthrax has a unique fingerprint. But this wasn't weaponized anthrax, it was—"

"Off the shelf?" Will asked caustically.

"Kind of. This appeared related to early attempts by Yugoslavia during the early Cold War period. Rather like the car, the Yugo—clunky and inefficient."

"Well, if anyone's going to try to murder my wife and the president of the company I work for, I'm sure grateful to them for using the inefficient stuff," Will returned, sarcasm in his words and inchoate anger in his voice.

"Pressman was in the Balkans last year, doing a project in support of the consuls."

"So he had the opportunity."

"Yes. But he vociferously denies it."

"What a surprise." Will seethed, feeling his suspicions had just been confirmed. "And Charlie Skinner?"

"That, anyway, is not a mystery. No one killed Charlie Skinner. He drowned himself in an ocean of whiskey and it took forty years to happen."

Will shifted tact. "Talk to me about Global Clarity. Was Solomon Hancock's death connected to his having contacted us last year?"

"No. I am at least sure of that. Hancock was a troubled man. Estranged from his family. He'd had depressive episodes before. It was never going to end well for him."

"Did Pressman, or you, make sure of that, too?"

"Stop." Dave held up his hand. "There was no way for us to have known Pressman had a hard-on for ACN. We had nothing on him. If he orchestrated the embarrassment of ACN through your D.C. producer, or the harassment of Skinner, or nudged your other producer onto the tracks, or even if he somehow managed to smuggle back anthrax—it was just counting coup to him. And I'll say this again for possible penetration: we have nothing on him. You're a fucking prosecutor. I don't have any evidence."

"Just like that, he gets off. No consequences."

"I didn't say that." Dave pushed back in his chair. "We don't dump people out of helicopters, you know, but I have a long reach—"

"So do I."

He looked hard at Will. "Pressman wound up at ONI after his son's suicide. It's SOP for someone in a sensitive position to be cossetted a bit after a traumatic personal event, like a suicide. Because it makes them, and us, vulnerable. So we sent him to ONI for a year, to get better."

"How'd that work out for you?" Will asked coolly.

Dave stood and walked around the windowless room. "You ever been to Guantanamo, McAvoy? It's the American Gulag. Even the wardens are prisoners. There are no commercial flights, and there's a mine field separating the naval base from the rest of Fidel's Cuba. You can't leave it unless you're permitted to leave. Yeah, even the good guys." He folded his arms across his chest. "Pressman's gone to Gitmo for five years. Special project for the NSA. It's all I can do, legally and with his cooperation—but it gets him off your radar for five goddam years."

"He fucking poisoned my wife—my wife—" Will's jaw torqued.

"For what it's worth, I believe that. But Gitmo's the best I can do. You know what they say: good enough for government work."

"You son of a bitch."

Dave shrugged. "ACN became a cause celebre last week. Anonymous adopts you as a pet project and tries to avenge the anthrax attack by executing mass denials of service against government web sites."

"Only because the hacktivists assumed the anthrax was connected to our recent story on Julian Assange and WikiLeaks."

"The near-deification of that stringy haired albino is something I'll never understand." Dave let a look of disgust cloud his face. Several moments of silence passed. Then, he spoke again and this time, a smile played on his lips.

"Why are you here today, McAvoy? Why do you think I invited the intimidatingly well-dressed liberal mouth-piece to my office?"

"To explain about Pressman—"

"Fuck that. I don't owe you explanations."

"You want me to help call off Anonymous."

"I don't think you have the clout to do that. Anyway, they're like flies to an elephant. An annoyance, that's all. What does that leave?"

"You tell me."

Dave stood and pulled on his jacket. "Lately, you've been sounding like the 'mad prophet of the airwaves.' I watch the show. Not every night, but most nights. I don't question your motive in informing. Using your pulpit to crusade for whatever you happen to believe in. You've been devoting a lot of time to the Patriot Act. To electronic surveillance. To our little facility in Utah."

"You want me to stop?"

"No. I want you to make it louder."

Will's face slackened in surprise. "You want—"

"Force a national dialogue about the ends-justify-means mindset we have had since nine-eleven. Take on the little shits in Congress who wrap themselves in flags every four years and don't have the attention span of a tapeworm, who never think to ask hard questions, of themselves or anyone else. They aren't restricted to one party, there are plenty on both sides of the aisle." He sat on the edge of his desk. "You know, McAvoy, someone has to keep the gate. Right now, the good guys are still guarding the gate—"

"You're a good guy?" Will sneered.

"Goddam right I am. And one day soon, the pandering politicos will have replaced people like me with appointees and shallow careerists, with people who find it easier to carry out orders than to question them. Your Shep Pressmans. That's going to be a problem for the whole country." He sighed audibly. "I wish you luck with trying to inform the electorate. I can't help you, and I wouldn't bet on your odds, but I wish you luck. Because Americans don't care. You won't be able to make them care. You see, your business is sensation, constant stimulation. So a story about a bunch of spooks sitting in the desert, collecting signal intercepts—largely from people Americans dislike and distrust anyway—just isn't going to lead the newscast. Not for long. Eventually, perhaps even by next week, there will be a story that will take this one off the news. An assassination, a coup d'état, rebels in Nigeria, a mudslide in California or a toxic dump in Texas. Anthrax." He shrugged. "You won't be able to sustain this story."

Dave stood expectantly, so Will rose as well.

"One last thing. Call this my apology for Pressman." Dave slid a folder across the desk. "I'm handing you Dantana's ass."

Will opened the folder and scanned the top sheet. He shot a hard look to the other man. "Should I ask how you got this information?"

"I'm fucking NSA."

"This doesn't exonerate ACN. It just indicts Jerry."

"Take your victories where you can find them, McAvoy."

oooo

A few mornings later, MacKenzie and Jim sat in Will's office.

"He dropped the suit? Just like that?" Jim was clearly baffled.

"Well, ACN did agree to pick up his tab for reasonable legal fees. Rebecca thinks we can get out of it for less than a quarter million."

"What about the other action?"

"Dantana settled with Stomtonovich, too. The general never wanted money, just vindication."

"Don's case?"

Will responded cagily. "Still on. For now. Rebecca's pretty sure it will be dropped as well."

"Sweet." Jim glanced at the ACN monitor, realizing the hour by the images he saw there. "Time for the four o'clock. Will-?"

"I have to skip it. Meeting upstairs."

"Okay. Mac, good seeing you. Hope I haven't trashed your office too badly." The glass door closed silently behind him.

She gave Will a querulous look. "That was a well-edited version of the truth."

"That, my dear, was the greater fool in pursuit of a greater good." He gave a self-deprecating huff. "When I was a law student, this would have been considered fruit of the poisonous tree: evidence obtained illicitly is tainted. You can't miss the irony in that accepting the dirt on Dantana, I ceded the moral high ground."

"If it was obtained under the Patriot Act, then it wasn't illicitly gained. And you said this NSA man was also obliged to give it to law enforcement as well. We're just… unintended beneficiaries."

"Hmm." Will was still bothered. Even if it was legally obtained, it sure wasn't legally shared with ACN. However, he couldn't muster any sympathy for a purveyor of kiddie porn, and it did inspire Dantana to drop action against ACN. But there was something very dirty about it. Even Rebecca had viewed it with distaste.

"Time to go, Will. Reese is expecting us."

He escorted her through the door and across the bullpen. "You know what this is about?"

"Millie told me Jonathan Davies has been here all day, getting settled in. I rather imagine Reese is going to introduce us and dismiss me from the executive suite." She leaned into him as he pressed for the elevator. She squeezed his hand. "I'm glad you're coming with me. Makes me feel all courageous."

Reese met them as they came off the elevator. "Jonathan Davies is finishing with HR and will be joining us. I wanted to introduce you."

She nodded and exchanged a knowing look with Will.

"But first I want you to have a look at something." He walked them to the suite at the north corner. Under the plate that read President, Atlantis Cable News, was another smaller one, but on it was only a large M with a superscript numeral 4.

"That's just until we sort out the whole name thing. Or maybe it will grow on you and we'll leave it that way." Reese grinned in self-pleased delight, but as it became apparent that the connection wasn't sinking in, his smile faltered. He looked to Will for help.

"Hon—what I think Reese is trying to—"

"I don't understand—Jonathan Davies is here—you need to get this fixed before he—""

"Mac." Reese hadn't often called her that, seeming to prefer the imperiousness of last names or even the vaguely condescending nickname assigned by Leona, McMac. "I'm bringing Davies onboard as a consultant for live streaming. He'll report to the president of the news division. Um—" Reese paused. "That's you. Permanently." At her flabbergasted expression, he added, "There was never any other candidate. How could you not have known that?"

Will leaned against the wall, arms crossed and wearing a confident smile. "Mac. I'm thinking you should say yes."

She looked back to Reese, confused and surprised. "Why?"

"Stepping in for Charlie at a crucial moment. Extraordinary grace under fire concerning the fallout of Operation Genoa. Rehabilitating News Night. Not that it needed rehabilitation, of course," Reese amended, given the company. Will rolled his eyes. "The Assange interview. Putting together the concept for AFN. Anthrax, for Christ's sake." Reese stepped closer. "But mostly because, on the day of the Gifford's shooting, I really do believe you would have had my ass escorted from my own building."

"Will?" She looked to him as well.

"I'll give up having you in my ear for one hour a day, as long as you're there the other 23."