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heaven, techie that he was. “What is that, exactly? SatSurv?”
    “The CIA’s satellite surveillance system. It’ll give us a visual and infrared scan of the grounds.”
    “Hey, I heard about that. Popular Science, I think.” Derek turned away to make the call.
    Potter bent down and trained his Leica field glasses through the thick windows. He studied the slaughterhouse. A skull of a building. Stark against the sun-bleached grass, like dried blood on yellow bone. That was the assessment of Arthur Potter English lit major. Then, in an instant, he was Arthur Potter the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s senior hostage negotiator and assistant director of the Bureau’s Special Operations and Research Unit, whose quick eyes noted relevant details: thick brick wall, small windows, the location of the power lines, the absence of telephone lines, the cleared land around the building, and stands of trees, clusters of grass, and hills that might provide cover for snipers—both friend and foe.
    The rear of the slaughterhouse backed right onto the river.
    The river, Potter mused. Can we use it somehow?
    Can they?
    The roof was studded with parapets, a medieval castle. There was a tall, thin smokestack and a bulky elevator hut that would make a helicopter landing difficult, at least in this choppy wind. Still, a copter could hover and a dozen tactical officers could rappel onto the building with little difficulty. He could make out no skylights.
    The long-defunct Webber & Stoltz Processing Company, Inc., he decided, resembled nothing so much as a crematorium.
    “Pete, you have a bullhorn?”
    “Sure.” Henderson stepped outside and, crouching, jogged to his car to get it.
    “Say, you wouldn’t have a bathroom here, would you?” Potter asked Derek.
    “ ’Deed we do, sir,” said Derek, immensely proud of Kansas technology. The trooper pointed to a small door. Potter stepped inside and put on an armor vest beneath his dress shirt, which he then replaced. He knotted his tie carefully and pulled on his navy-blue sports coat once again. He noted that there was very little slack on the draw strap of the Second Chance vest but in his present state of mind his weight had virtually ceased to trouble him.
    Stepping outside into the cool afternoon, he took the black megaphone from Henderson and, crouching, hurried through a winding path between hills and squad cars, telling the troopers, eager and young most of them, to holster their pistols and stay under cover. When he was about sixty yards from the slaughterhouse he lay on a hilltop and peered at it through the Leica glasses. There was no motion from inside. No lights in the windows. Nothing. He noted that the glass was missing from the front-facing windows but he didn’t know if the men inside had knocked it out for better aim or if local schoolboys had been practicing with rocks and .22s.
    He turned on the bullhorn and, reminding himself not to shout and thus distort the message, said, “This is Arthur Potter. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’d like to talk to you men in there. I’m having a cellular telephone brought up. I’ll be getting it to you in about ten orfifteen minutes. We are not planning an assault. You’re in no danger. I repeat: We are not planning an assault.”
    He expected no response and received none. In a crouch he hurried back to the van and asked Henderson, “Who’s in charge locally? I want to talk to them.”
    “Him, there.”
    Crouching beside a tree was a tall, sandy-haired man in a pale blue suit. His posture was perfect.
    “Who is he?” Potter asked, polishing his glasses on his lapel.
    “Charles Budd. State police captain. He’s got investigative and tactical experience. No negotiating. Spit-shined record.”
    “How long on the force?” To Potter, Budd looked young and callow. You expected to see him ambling over the linoleum in the Sears appliance department to shyly pitch an extended warranty.
    “Eight years.