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   The Secret Service.

  

   Two men. An older, distinguished gentleman standing on the left and a

   young guy on the right. The young guy's eyes opened wide when he saw

   Par.

  

   Suddenly, the young guy pushed Par, and kept pushing him. Small, hard,

   fast thrusts. Par couldn't get his balance. Each time he almost got

   his footing, the agent shoved the hacker backward again until he

   landed against the wall. The agent spun Par around so his face pressed

   against the wall and pushed a gun into his kidney. Then he slammed

   handcuffs on Par and started frisking him for weapons.

  

   Par looked at Morty, now sobbing in the corner, and thought, You

   narced on me.

  

   Once Par was safely cuffed, the agents flashed their badges to him.

   Then they took him outside, escorted him into a waiting car and drove

   into Manhattan. They pulled up in front of the World Trade Center and

   when Par got out the young agent swapped the cuffs so Par's hands were

   in front of him.

  

   As the agents escorted the handcuffed fugitive up a large escalator,

   the corporate world stared at the trio. Business men and women in prim

   navy suits, secretaries and office boys all watched wide-eyed from the

   opposite escalator. And if the handcuffs weren't bad enough, the

   younger Secret Service agent was wearing a nylon jacket with a

   noticeable gun-shaped lump in the front pouch.

  

   Why are these guys bringing me in the front entrance? Par kept

   thinking. Surely there must be a backdoor, a car park back entrance.

   Something not quite so public.

  

   The view from any reasonably high floor of the World Trade Center is

   breathtaking, but Par never got a chance to enjoy the vista. He was

   hustled into a windowless room and handcuffed to a chair. The agents

   moved in and out, sorting out paperwork details. They uncuffed him

   briefly while they inked his fingers and rolled them across sheets of

   paper. Then they made him give handwriting samples, first his right

   hand then his left.

  

   Par didn't mind being cuffed to the chair so much, but he found the

   giant metal cage in the middle of the fingerprinting room deeply

   disturbing. It reminded him of an animal cage, the kind used in old

   zoos.

  

   The two agents who arrested him left the room, but another one came

   in. And the third agent was far from friendly. He began playing the

   bad cop, railing at Par, shouting at him, trying to unnerve him. But

   no amount of yelling from the agent could rile Par as much as the

   nature of the questions he asked.

  

   The agent didn't ask a single question about Citibank. Instead, he

   demanded to hear everything Par knew about TRW.

  

   All Par's worst nightmares about the killer spy satellite, about

   becoming the man who knew too much, rushed through his mind.

  

   Par refused to answer. He just sat silently, staring at the agent.