Tense silence gripped the crowded living room. Commandos stood everywhere, their guns leveled. Brisling sat on the couch, hands held high, the X-ray films scattered on the floor at his feet. Davila cradled the wooden cube in her arms. Peter stood beside her, hands high. Two commandos held Demi in an arm lock against the wall. She had made a move for her rifle. Delbert had tried to help her but quickly found himself sniffing the greased barrel of a submachine gun.

From behind the partition wall stepped a short, helmeted man armed only with a pistol. The way he drew the commandos' attention said he was their captain. He nodded at something coming in through his earpiece then holstered his weapon.

"Stand down," he commanded in a calming southern drawl. All guns were lowered. "Let her go," he added to the commandos holding Demi. She sprang loose and rushed to her grandfather's side.

The captain removed his helmet to a mop of unkempt red hair. He seemed young, too young. His eyes were a soft shade of green. "Everyone just relax, and I promise no one gets hurt." He reached inside his body armor and produced a rectangular badge with the letters FBI printed in big blue capital letters.

Brisling let his arms fall. "Jesus. It's about fucking time." He bent over to retrieve the X-ray films.

"And who are you?" said the captain.

Brisling came upright and pushed his glasses back up onto the bridge of his nose. "Didn't Senator Flaherty send you?"

The captain scratched his nascent beard. Behind him, several commandos carried a loaded body bag from the downstairs bedroom out through the front door. Another commando squeezed past them and handed the captain something, the ID badge Peter had seen inside Brisling's Jeep. He studied it then looked up at the doctor. "What's the CDC doing here?"

Brisling threw his hands in the air. "Come on! You guys have been following me ever since Portland."

The captain's green eyes narrowed. "You mentioned a Senator Flaherty. Did you mean Joseph Flaherty?"

"That's right. The Massachusetts Messiah. The new vice president."

The captain frowned and handed the ID badge back to his man. Then he turned to Davila. "Where's Jason Numec?"

"He's dead. We left his body at the summit."

Another man stepped out from behind the partition wall. He was much older than the captain, taller, thinner, with a noble face and black-brown eyes. He wore the same body armor as the others, but he appeared to be unarmed. Removing his helmet, he ran his fingers through his peppery curls. It was Avram, the Mossad commander.

Davila gaped. "Why didn't you say you were working with the Americans?"

"Would it have mattered? Our two governments have been cooperating for months now to capture Gryphus. Or kill him."

She clenched her jaw. "Why didn't you help us at the summit?"

"I never guaranteed your safety," he said, deferring to the FBI captain.

"That was our responsibility, ma'am, and we failed. We lost two of our finest today trying to intercept Gryphus and Jason Numec on the mountain. We didn't expect to find you alive in this house."

Almost the exact words Avram had used on Munkholmen Island.

"I'm sorry for your loss," said Davila, her gaze angling toward the front door. "But now you have what you came for."

"Not everything," said Avram.

"But you have Gryphus now. And Jason Numec's body is at the summit."

Avram nodded at the wooden cube in her arms. "I'm afraid we'll have to take that as well."

She clutched it to her chest. "That was never part of the deal!"

"Not our deal, no."

Davila wheeled on the captain. "You can't let him take it!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. It's all been arranged at the highest levels. Please don't make this any harder than it has to be." At his signal, two commandos seized Davila by the arms while a third pried the cube from her gloved hands. Placing it back in its container, they closed the lid, locked the latches, and carried it out through the front door, the captain close behind them. As the remaining commandos exited the house, Avram paused in the entryway, turning as if he might offer a final apology. Then he too slipped out the front door.

Demi locked the door behind them, and they all sat in stunned silence, heads hanging as the fire crackled away in the stove.

Scarcely ten minutes later, a vehicle came racing down the driveway toward the house. The dark passenger van skidded to a stop in the snow, and out jumped a half dozen men wearing bulletproof vests over their street clothes. They trundled onto the front porch, and one of them thumped on the door.

"Should I answer that?" Brisling asked Delbert.

The old man slumped in his armchair. "At least they knocked."

Brisling opened the door to a heavyset man about his own age, the same height, and just as bald. His bulky bulletproof vest and dark business suit made him look like a baseball umpire. The men behind him were armed with pistols and sawed-off shotguns. "Joel Cantor, Homeland Security," he said, holding up his badge and stamping the snow off his shoes.

"Are you kidding me?" said Brisling.

The agent frowned. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. Just this shiner. But you're late to the party. The FBI just left. Jesus, you guys really don't communicate, do you?"

"They briefed us while we were incoming." He peered inside at the bloody towels strewn across the hallway floor. "Does anyone inside need medical attention?"

"No. We're all OK."

"Do they have food and supplies?"

"Plenty. Why?"

"Because they're all under house arrest. In fact, this whole mountain is on lockdown. No one comes and no one goes."

"And what about me?"

"Get your things. You're coming with us."