HE OFFICE, HIGH ABOVE DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN, looked out over Jersey. The crap in the air made the sunset absolutely beautiful.

"We gotta."

"We can't."

"Gotta," Fred Dellray repeated and sipped his coffee — even worse than in the restaurant where the Scruff and he'd been sitting not long before. "Take it away from 'em. They'll live with it."

"It's a local case," responded the FBI's assistant special agent in charge of the Manhattan office. The ASAC was a meticulous man who could never work undercover — because when you saw him you thought, Oh, look, an FBI agent.

"It's not local. They're treating it local. But it's a big case."

"We're down eighty men because of the UN thing."

"And this's related to it," Dellray said. "I'm positive."

"Then we'll tell UN Security. Let everybody... Oh, don't give me that look."

"UN Security? UN Security? Say, you ever heara the words oxy-moron?... Billy, you see that picture? Of the scene this morning? The hand comin' outa the dirt, and all the skin cut offa that finger? That's a sick fuck out there."

"NYPD's keeping us informed," the ASAC said smartly. "We've got Behavioral on call if they want."

"Oh, Jesus Christ on the merry cross. 'Behavioral on call'? We gotta catch this ripper, Billy. Catch him. Not figger out his tick-tocky workings."

"Tell me what your snitch said again."

Dellray knew a crack in a rock when he saw one. Wasn't going to let it seal up again. Rapid fire now: about the Scruff and Jackie in Johannesburg or Monrovia and the hushed word throughout the illicit arms trade that something was going down at a New York airport this week so stay clear. "It's him," Dellray said. "Gotta be."

"NYPD's got a task force together."

"Not Anti-Terror. I made calls. Nobody at A-T there knows zippo about it. To NYPD it's dead tourists equal bad public relations.' I want this case, Billy." And Fred Dellray said the one word he'd never uttered in his eight years of undercover work. "Please."

"What grounds're you talking?"

"Oh-oh, bullshit question," Dellray said, stroking his index finger like a scolding teacher. "Lessee. We got ourselves that spiffy new anti-terrorism bill. But that's not enough for you, you want jurisdiction? I'll give you jurisdiction. A Port Authority felony. Kidnapping. I can fucking argue that this prick's driving a taxi so he's affecting interstate commerce. We don't want to play those games, do we, Billy?"

"You're not listening, Dellray. I can recite the U.S. Code in my sleep, thank you. I want to know if we're going to take over, what we tell people and make everybody happy. 'Cause remember, after this unsub's bagged and tagged we're going to have to keep working with NYPD. I'm not going to send my big brother to beat up their big brother even though I can. Anytime I want. Lon Sellitto's running the case and he's a good man."

"A lieutenant?" Dellray snorted. He tugged the cigarette out from behind his ear and held it under his nostrils for a moment.

"Jim Polling's in charge."

Dellray reared back with mock horror. "Polling? Little Adolph? The 'You- have- the- right- to- remain- silent- 'cause- I'ma- hit- you- upside- the- motherfuckin'- head' Polling? Him?"

The ASAC had no response for that. He said, "Sellitto's good. A real workhorse. I've been with him on two OC task forces."

"That unsub's grabbing bodies right and left and this here boy's betting he's going to work his way up."

"Meaning?"

"We got senators in town. We got congressmen, we got heads of state. I think these folk he's grabbing now're just for practice."

"You been talking to Behavioral and not telling me?"

"It's what I smell." Dellray couldn't resist touching his lean nose.

The ASAC blew air from his clean-shaven federal agent cheeks. "Who's the CI?"

Dellray had trouble thinking of the Scruff as a confidential informant, which sounded like something out of a Dashiell Hammett novel. Most CIs were skels, short for skeletons, meaning scrawny, disgusting little hustlers. Which fit the Scruff to a T.

"He's a tick," Dellray admitted. "But Jackie, this guy he heard it from's solid."

"I know you want it, Fred. I understand." The ASAC said this with some sympathy. Because he knew exactly what was behind Dellray's request.

Even as a boy in Brooklyn, Dellray had wanted to be a cop. It hadn't mattered much to him what kind of cop as long as he could spend twenty-four hours a day doing it. But soon after joining the Bureau he found his calling — undercover work.

Teamed with his straight man and guardian angel Toby Dolittle, Dellray was responsible for sending a large number of perps away for a very long time — the sentences totaled close to a thousand years. ("They kin call us the Millennium Team, Toby-o," he declared to his partner once.) The clue to Dellray's success was his nickname: "the Chameleon." Bestowed after — in the space of twenty-four hours — he played a brain-dead cluckhead in a Harlem crack house and a Haitian dignitary at a dinner in the Panamanian consulate, complete with diagonal red ribbon on his chest and impenetrable accent. The two of them were regularly loaned out to ATF or DEA and, occasionally, city police departments. Drugs and guns were their specialty though they had a minor in 'jacked merchandise.

The irony of undercover work is that the better you are, the earlier the retirement. Word gets around and the big boys, the perps worth going after, become harder to fox. Dolittle and Dellray found themselves working less in the field and more as handlers of informants and other undercover agents. And while it wasn't Dellray's first choice — nothing excited him like the street — it still got him out of the office more often than most SAs in the Bureau. It had never occurred to him to request a transfer.

Until two years ago — a warm April morning in New York. Dellray was just about to leave the office to catch a plane at La Guardia when he got a phone call from the assistant director of the Bureau in Washington. The FBI is a nest of hierarchy and Dellray couldn't imagine why the big man himself was calling. Until he heard the AD's somber voice break the news that Toby Dolittle, along with an assistant U.S. attorney from Manhattan, had been on the ground floor of the Oklahoma City, federal building that morning, preparing for the deposition session that Dellray himself was just about to depart for.

Their bodies were being flown back to New York the next day.

Which was the same day that Dellray put in the first of his RFT-2230 forms, requesting a transfer to the Bureau's Anti-Terror Division.

The bombing had been the crime of crimes to Fred Dellray, who, when no one was looking, devoured books on politics and philosophy. He believed there was nothing essentially un-American about greed or lust — hey, those qualities were encouraged everywhere from Wall Street to Capitol Hill. And if people making a business of greed or lust sometimes stepped over the border of legality, Dellray was pleased to track them down — but he never did so with personal animosity. But to murder people for their beliefs — hell, to murder children before they even knew what they believed — my God, that was a stab at the heart of the country. Sitting in his two-room, sparsely furnished Brooklyn apartment after Toby's funeral, Dellray decided that this was the kind of crime he wanted a crack at.

But unfortunately the Chameleon's reputation preceded him. The Bureau's best undercover agent was now their best handler, running agents and CIs throughout the East Coast. His bosses simply couldn't afford to let him go to one of the more quiescent departments of the FBI. Dellray was a minor legend, personally responsible for some of the Bureau's greatest recent successes. So it was with considerable regret that his persistent requests were turned down.

The ASAC was well aware of this history and he now added a sincere, "I wish I could help out, Fred. I'm sorry."

But all Dellray heard in these words was the rock cracking a little further. And so the Chameleon pulled a persona off the rack and stared down his boss. He wished he still had his fake gold tooth. Street man Dellray was a tough hombre with one mother-fucker of a mean stare. And in that look was the unmistakable message anybody on the street would know instinctively: I done for you, now you do for me.

Finally the smarmy ASAC said lamely, "It's just that we need something."

"Somethin'?"

"A hook," the ASAC said. "We don't have a hook."

A reason to take the case away from NYPD, he meant.

Politics, politics, polifuckingtics.

Dellray lowered his head but the eyes, brown as polish, didn't waver a millimeter from the ASAC. "He cut the skin off that vic's finger this morning, Billy. Clean down to the bone. Then buried him alive."

Two scrubbed, federal-agent hands met beneath a crisp jaw. The ASAC said slowly, "Here's a thought. There's a deputy commissioner at NYPD. Name's Eckert. You know him? He's a friend of mine."

The girl lay on her back on a stretcher, eyes closed, conscious but groggy. Still pale. An IV of glucose ran into her arm. Now that she'd been rehydrated she was coherent and surprisingly calm, all things considered.

Sachs walked back to the gates of hell and stood looking down into the black doorway. She clicked on the radio and called Lincoln Rhyme. This time he answered.

"How's the scene look?" Rhyme asked casually.

Her answer was a curt: "We got her out. If you're interested."

"Ah, good. How is she?"

"Not good."

"But alive, right."

"Barely."

"You're upset because of the rats, aren't you, Amelia?"

She didn't answer.

"Because I didn't let Bo's men get her right away. Are you there, Amelia?"

"I'm here."

"There are five contaminants of crime scenes," Rhyme explained. She noticed he'd gone into his low, seductive tone again. "The weather, the victim's family, the suspect, souvenir hunters. The last is the worst. Guess what it is?"

"You tell me."

"Other cops. If I'd let ESU in they could've destroyed all the trace. You know how to handle a scene now. And I'll bet you preserved everything just fine."

Sachs needed to say, "I don't think she'll ever be the same after this. The rats were all over her."

"Yes, I imagine they were. That's their nature."

Their nature...

"But five minutes or ten wasn't going to make any difference. She —"

Click.

She shut off the radio and walked to Walsh, the medic.

"I want to interview her. Is she too groggy?"

"Not yet. We gave her locals — to stitch the lacerations and the bites. She'll want some Demerol in a half hour or so."

Sachs smiled and crouched down beside her. "Hi, how you doing?"

The girl, fat but very pretty, nodded.

"Can I ask you some questions?"

"Yes, pleece. I want you get him."

Sellitto arrived and ambled up to them. He smiled down at the girl, who gazed at him blankly. He proffered a badge she had no interest in and identified himself.

"You all right, miss?"

The girl shrugged.

Sweating fiercely in the muggy heat, Sellitto nodded Sachs aside. "Polling been here?"

"Haven't seen him. Maybe he's at Lincoln's."

"No, I just called there. He's gotta get to City Hall pronto."

"What's the problem?"

Sellitto lowered his voice, his doughy face twisted up. "A fuckup — our transmissions're supposed to be secure. But those fucking reporters, somebody's got an unscrambler or something. They heard we didn't go in right away to get her." He nodded toward the girl.

"Well, we didn't," Sachs said harshly. "Rhyme told ESU to wait until I got here."

The detective winced. "Man, I hope they don't have that on tape. We need Polling for damage control." He nodded to the girl. "Interviewed her yet?"

"No. Just about to." With some regret Sachs clicked on the radio and heard Rhyme's urgent voice.

"... you there? This goddamn thing doesn't —"

"I'm here," Sachs said coolly.

"What happened?"

"Interference, I guess. I'm with the vic."

The girl blinked at the exchange and Sachs smiled. "I'm not talking to myself." Gestured toward the mike. "Police headquarters. What's your name?"

"Monelle. Monelle Gerger." She looked at her bitten arm, pulled up a dressing and examined a wound.

"Interview her fast," Rhyme instructed, "then work the scene."

Hand covering the microphone stalk, Sachs whispered fiercely to Sellitto, "This man is a pain in the ass to work for. Sir."

"Humor him, officer."

"Amelia!" Rhyme barked. "Answer me!"

"We're interviewing her, all right?" she snapped.

Sellitto asked, "Can you tell us what happened?"

Monelle began to talk, a disjointed story about being in the laundry room of a residence hall in the East Village. He'd been hiding, waiting for her.

"What residence hall?" Sellitto asked.

"The Deutsche Haus. It's, you know, mostly German expatriates and students."

"What happened then?" Sellitto continued. Sachs noted that although the big detective appeared gruffer, more ornery than Rhyme, he was really the more compassionate of the two.

"He threwed me in the trunk of car and drove here."

"Did you get a look at him?"

The woman closed her eyes. Sachs repeated the question and Monelle said she hadn't; he was, as Rhyme had guessed, wearing a navy-blue ski mask.

"Und gloves."

"Describe them."

They were dark. She didn't remember what color.

"Any unusual characteristics? The kidnapper?"

"No. He was white. I could tell that."

"Did you see the license plate of the taxi?" Sellitto asked.

"Was?" the girl asked, drifting into her native tongue.

"Did you see —"

Sachs jumped as Rhyme interrupted: "Das Nummernschild."

Thinking: How the hell does he know all this? She repeated the word and the girl shook her head no then squinted. "What you mean, taxi?"

"Wasn't he driving a Yellow Cab?"

"Taxicab? Nein. No. It was regular car."

"Hear that, Lincoln?"

"Yup. Our boy's got another set of wheels. And he put her in the trunk so it's not a station wagon or hatchback."

Sachs repeated this. The girl nodded. "Like a sedan."

"Any idea of the make or color?" Sellitto continued.

Monelle answered, "Light, I think. Maybe silver or gray. Or that, you know, what is it? Light brown."

"Beige?"

She nodded.

"Maybe beige," Sachs added for Rhyme's benefit.

Sellitto asked, "Was there anything in the trunk? Anything at all? Tools, clothes, suitcases?"

Monelle said there wasn't. It was empty.

Rhyme had a question. "What did it smell like? The trunk."

Sachs relayed the query.

"I don't know."

"Oil and grease?"

"No. It smelled... clean."

"So maybe a new car," Rhyme reflected.

Monelle dissolved into tears for a moment: Then shook her head. Sachs took her hand and, finally, she continued. "We drove for long time. Seemed like long time."

"You're doing fine, honey," Sachs said.

Rhyme's voice interrupted. "Tell her to strip."

"What?"

"Take her clothes off."

"I will not."

"Have the medics give her a robe. We need her clothes, Amelia."

"But," Sachs whispered, "she's crying."

"Please," Rhyme said urgently. "It's important."

Sellitto nodded and Sachs, tight-lipped, explained to the girl about the clothes and was surprised when Monelle nodded. She was, it turned out, eager to get out of the bloody garments anyway. Giving her privacy, Sellitto walked away, to confer with Bo Haumann. Monelle put on a gown the medic offered her and one of the plain-clothes detectives covered her with his sportscoat. Sachs bagged the jeans and T-shirts.

"Got them," Sachs said into the radio.

"Now she's got to walk the scene with you," Rhyme said.

"What?"

"But make sure she's behind you. So she doesn't contaminate any PE."

Sachs looked at the young woman, huddling on a gurney beside the two EMS buses.

"She's in no shape to do that. He cut her. All the way to the bone. So she'd bleed and the rats'd get her."

"Is she mobile?"

"Probably. But you know what she's just been through?"

"She can give you the route they walked. She can tell you where he stood."

"She's going to the ER. She lost a lot of blood."

A hesitation. He said pleasantly, "Just ask her."

But his joviality was fake and Sachs heard just impatience. She could tell that Rhyme was a man who wasn't used to coddling people, who didn't have to. He was someone used to having his own way.

He persisted, "Just once around the grid."

You can go fuck yourself, Lincoln Rhyme.

"It's —"

"Important. I know."

Nothing from the other end of the line.

She was looking at Monelle. Then she heard a voice, no, her voice say to the girl, "I'm going down there to look for evidence. Will you come with me?"

The girl's eyes nailed Sachs deep in her heart. Tears burst. "No, no, no. I am not doing that. Bitte nicht, oh, bitte nicht..."

Sachs nodded, squeezed the woman's arm. She began to speak into the mike, steeling herself for his reaction, but Rhyme surprised her by saying, "All right, Amelia. Let it go. Just ask her what happened when they arrived."

The girl explained how she'd kicked him and escaped into an adjoining tunnel.

"I kick him again," she said with some satisfaction. "Knock off his glove. Then he get all pissed and strangle me. He —"

"Without the glove on?" Rhyme blurted.

Sachs repeated the question and Monelle said, "Yes."

"Prints, excellent!" Rhyme shouted, his voice distorting in the mike. "When did it happen? How long ago?"

Monelle guessed about an hour and a half.

"Hell," Rhyme muttered. "Prints on skin last an hour, ninety minutes, tops. Can you print skin, Amelia?"

"I never have before."

"Well, you're about to. But fast. In the CS suitcase there'll be a packet labeled Kromekote. Pull out a card."

She found a stack of glossy five-by-seven cards, similar to photographic paper.

"Got it. Do I dust her neck?"

"No. Press the card, glossy side down, against her skin where she thinks he touched her. Press for about three seconds."

Sachs did this, as Monelle stoically gazed at the sky. Then, as Rhyme instructed, she dusted the card with metallic powder, using a puffy Magna-Brush.

"Well?" Rhyme asked eagerly.

"It's no good. A shape of a finger. But no visible ridges. Should I pitch it?"

"Never throw away anything at a crime scene, Sachs," he lectured sternly. "Bring it back. I want to see it anyway."

"One thing, I am thinking I forget," said Monelle. "He touch me."

"You mean he molested you?" Sachs asked gently. "Rape?"

"No, no. Not in a sex way. He touch my shoulder, face, behind my ear. Elbow. He squeezed me. I don't know why."

"You hear that, Lincoln? He touched her. But it didn't seem like he was getting off on it."

"Yes."

"Und... And one thing I am forgetting," Monelle said. "He spoke German. Not good. Like he only study it in school. And he call me Hanna."

"Called her what?"

"Hanna," Sachs repeated into the mike. "Do you know why?" she asked the girl.

"No. But that's all he call me. He seemed to like saying the name."

"Did you get that, Lincoln?"

"Yes, I did. Now do the scene. Time's awasting."

As Sachs stood, Monelle suddenly reached up and gripped her wrist.

"Miss... Sachs. You are German?"

She smiled and answered, "A long time ago. A couple generations."

Monelle nodded. She pressed Sachs's palm to her cheek. "Vielen Dank. Thank you, Miss Sachs. Danke schön."