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Those who remained in the city were either dead or about to die. Black, white, Arab. Native sons and daughters. Immigrants. Today there was no confusion about French ident.i.ty — burned bodies all look the same.

“This can’t be happening,” André Vogel said. When China shut off communications, Vogel’s veneer of confidence had shattered and hadn’t returned. “The fire crews … where are the fire crews?”

“They’re dead.”

All eyes turned to Pierce Fallon, the director of national intelligence. Fallon always had a seat at the table — he just didn’t say much unless he was asked, or unless he knew exactly what was happening. He was as una.s.suming as he was quiet, the kind of man who could effortlessly fade into the background.

“Those flames will rage until there’s nothing left to burn,” Fallon said. “We have multiple reports of firehouses being attacked at noon, Paris time. a.s.sault and murder of fire department personnel, destruction of vehicles and equipment, fires set to the stations themselves. This drew an immediate police response, but armed gangs were waiting to ambush the police.”

He paused as something exploded on-screen. Another building collapsed.

“At twelve-thirty P.M., Paris time, there were reports of attacks on petrol stations, stores, anything that would burn fast and spread the fire to neighboring buildings,” Fallon said. “With the city’s fire response crippled, the results” — he gestured to the screen, where the Eiffel Tower looked like a black spike jutting up from the flames of h.e.l.l — “were quite predictable.”

Blackmon looked shocked, a rare crack in her emotional armor. “You’re telling me this was a coordinated attack?”

Fallon nodded. “No question, Madam President. We estimate about a thousand insurgents were involved.”

A single word instantly changed the tone of the room: not infected, or converted, but insurgents — an organized force.

“One thousand,” Blackmon said. Her shoulders drooped. “The city stood for centuries. Just one thousand people destroyed it.”

Murray’s soul sagged with the hopelessness of it all. No invading force. No trained army. Paris had been destroyed by people who knew the city’s streets, the routes, knew how the police acted, knew where all the fire stations were — Paris had been destroyed by Parisians.

Blackmon turned to Murray. “A coordinated strategy,” she said. “Can that happen here?”

Once again, he was out on a limb, giving his best guess at something not even the smartest people he’d ever met could understand.

He gestured to the monitor. “Right now, we’re looking at a feed from CNN. The entire world is watching the same images we are. These Converted are obviously more organized than we’ve seen in the past. We have to a.s.sume some of them are watching this, and are seeing a strategy that works. If their goal is to destroy, now they know how.”

Blackmon put her hands on her face, rubbed vigorously. She lowered them, blinked and raised her eyebrows.

“Get the word out to law enforcement in the major cities — and especially Chicago, New York, the places most heavily infected — that they need to protect fire stations.”

People started to talk, to protest, but the president held up her hands for silence.

“I know every police force is already spread thin,” she said. “But if a city can’t fight fire, then we lose that city. Even if it’s a couple of cops in each firehouse, at least that gives us a chance.”

She put her hands on the table, leaned heavily. She looked at the image of a burning Paris.