There were two phones on Allen McKibben's desk: a black one, for direct communication to the Institute and Jan, and a red one. (A normal phone sat on a nearby cocktail cabinet, but was rarely used.) At approximately 8 a.m., 25 May 1994, just as the young lieutenant was readying to leave—the black one rang.
He picked it up. “McKibben.”
The voice at the other end was hesitant. “Al—Allen?”
“Jan ...” He sat down. “Thanks for getting right back. How are things?”
The line buzzed.
Finally, she said: “There's been an accident.”
McKibben straightened. “Oh?” His pulse had quickened. “What kind of accident?”
She cleared her throat. “An escape. One of my crew is dead; another incapacitated. Napoleon's gone.”
“What?”
He could almost hear her cringe—and checked himself. Softening his tone, he a
