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the escape of Lou Handy and two other inmates from a federal prison in southern Kansas, their murder of a couple in a wheat field several miles from the slaughterhouse and the taking of the hostages. The intelligence officer looked over the hard copies and then began typing the data into one of his computers.
    The door opened and Peter Henderson entered. He announced that Tobe Geller would be here momentarily and Angie Scapello would be arriving within the hour. Tobe had been flown in via Air Force F-16 from Boston, where he’d been teaching a course in computer-programming profiling as a way to establish the identity of criminal hackers. He should arrive any minute. Angie was taking a Marine DomTran jet from Quantico.
    “Angie?” LeBow said. “I’m pleased about that. Very pleased.”
    Agent Scapello resembled Geena Davis and had huge, brown eyes that no amount of failing to wear makeup could make less seductive. Still, LeBow’s excitement had nothing to do with her appearance and everything to do with her specialty—hostage psychology.
    En route to the barricade Angie would stop at the Laurent Clerc School and gather as much information about the hostages as she could. If Potter knew her at all he guessed she was already on the horn to the school, writing up profiles of the girls.
    LeBow taped a large sheet of blank paper on the wallabove the desk and hung a black marker by a string from it. The sheet was divided in half. The left was headed “Promises,” the right, “Deceptions.” On it LeBow would record everything Potter offered to Handy and every lie he told the man. This was standard procedure in hostage negotiations. The use of the crib sheet could be explained best by Mark Twain, who’d said that a man needs a good memory to be an effective liar.
    Surprised, Budd asked, “You really going to lie to him?” LeBow smiled.
    “But what exactly is a lie, Charlie?” Potter asked. “The truth’s a pretty slippery thing. Are any words ever one hundred percent honest?” He tore pages from his notebook and handed them to LeBow, who took the small sheets, along with the faxes that were spewing from the printer, and began typing on the keyboard of the computer that was labeled “Profiles,” the word written long ago on a piece of now dirty masking tape. The label on the second computer read “Chronology.” The latter screen contained only two entries:
    0840 hours. Hostages taken.
    1050 hours. Threat Management Team—Potter, LeBow—in place.
    The backlit liquid-crystal screens poured eerie blue light onto the man’s round face; he looked like an Arthur Rackham rendering of the man in the moon. Charlie Budd gazed at the man’s fingers, flying invisibly over the keys. “Lookit that. He’s worn off half the letters.”
    LeBow grumbled to Potter, “Saw the building. Lousy situation. Too well shielded for SatSurv and not enough windows for infrared or mikes. The wind’s a problem too.”
    As in most barricades the bulk of information here would have to come from traditional sources—released or escaped hostages and the troopers who took food and drinks to the HTs and stole a glance inside.
    LeBow tapped computer buttons and created a small window on the chronology computer. Two digital stopwatches appeared. One was headed “Elapsed”; the other, “Deadline.”
    LeBow set the elapsed time clock to two hours, ten minutes and pushed a button. It began moving. He glanced at Potter with a raised eyebrow.
    “I know, Henry.” If you don’t contact the hostage takersoon after the taking they get nervous and begin to wonder if you’re planning an assault. The negotiator added, “We’ll give Tobe a few minutes then have the briefing.” He looked out over the fields behind them, the tall pale blanket of grass waving in the chill breeze. A half-mile away the combines moved in gentle, symmetrical patterns, cropping the wheat fields like a new recruit’s scalp.
    Potter examined a map of the area. “All