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tactical unit, usually reserved for raids or clean up jobs following a hit. Some of them were levelheaded and some were cowboys. He didn’t want them anywhere near this kind of meeting. “Colin’s my man, my problem. Nothing’s going to happen.”
    “And if it does?”
    “Then I’ll handle it.”
    “The Dean is confident that you will. I only wish I shared his confidence. Colin should be sending through the location of the rendezvous in a moment, if he’s still following protocol. We’ll decide then what precautions are best.”
    Jason killed the connection and Hicks’ screen went dark. Jason always had been a last word freak.
    The handheld vibrated again as the location for the meeting had come through. Despite the security of their network, the University had an elaborate, often cumbersome, security protocol for emergency circumstances. Undercover personnel called emergency meetings and could call the location. They could only go through the Switchboard and weren’t allowed to contact their handlers directly.
    Since most University operatives were usually imbedded with sophisticated, careful terrorist groups, this protocol protected agent and handler alike. The agent called a central number, gave the handler’s call sign and message. An operator then transmitted the insisted on often separated key parts of their messages. Locations of meetings were up to the field agent and seldom included in a message requesting a meeting. If the agent was in distress, there were subtle phrases to use that would alert the University that they were being forced to call in. Colin’s message had no such warning, so Hicks assumed he was clear.
    A map application with the address opened and showed exactly where Colin wanted to meet. Under a footbridge in Central Park at eight o’clock that night.
    During the predicted height of the coming blizzard.
    Hicks pocketed his handheld and headed down to the subway. There was no sense in questioning the message or looking at the map any more than he already had. He could ask himself all sorts of questions and speculate all he wanted, but he knew it wouldn’t do a damned bit of good. He wouldn’t know what all of this was about until he spoke to Colin.
    Until then, he had plenty of work to do.
     
     
     

20:00 Hrs / 8:00PM
     
    H ICKS FELT like the artic explorers of old as he trudged through almost a foot of heavy snow toward Central Park. The streets were unplowed and deserted and there wasn’t a cab in sight. The MTA had recalled all buses and subways hours ago because of the storm, so walking was the only way he could get uptown. He didn’t mind. He’d been in worse weather in worse parts of the world; often with people trying to kill him. Besides, he had short barreled .454 Ruger in the pocket of his parka to keep him warm. He usually preferred the compact feel of a .22 but, given the wind, he went with a higher caliber. Most would’ve gone for an automatic, but Hicks preferred revolvers. No worries about the damned thing jamming at the wrong time.
    Hicks thought a lot about Colin and his phone call as he trudged through the snow. He’d spent the afternoon and early evening on the University’s system analyzing Colin’s phone and computer activity. OMNI was tied in to every ISP and mobile service in the world—had been from the beginning—so access to virtually every web-enabled device was only a few mouse clicks away. No other agency had that kind of access. Not even the NSA. The Snowden mess proved that. The Snowden mess also validated the University’s obsession with secrecy, even in the intelligence world.
    None of Colin’s digital activity proved suspicious except for the lack of it in the past day or so. Colin was like most people in the twenty-first century: addicted to his phone. He mostly visited sports sights and online Islamic bulletin boards. He scanned Al Jazeera and the New York Times. When no one was around, he watched SportsCenter clips online and porn