"Who looked like a special ops team from the military," Jamie said. "You told me you saw them being hoisted back up into the choppers."

"Yes."

"You saw all of them?"

"Yes. I had to make sure all of them were gone."

"Did you see Prescott being hoisted up with them?"

"No."

"Doesn't that strike you as odd if he was one of them?"

"Maybe he was killed in the fire."

"And they didn't take his body?"

"Not if they couldn't get to it. That would be one of the things this special unit the newspaper referred to would want to take out of there."

Jamie glanced down at the worn carpet. "Or maybe the facts are exactly as they seem. The first group wanted Prescott alive. The second group wanted him dead. He was scared to death of both of them. And your team did have information that absolutely had to remain a secret."

Immediately, Cavanaugh felt cold-not from chills as a consequence of his fever but from the sudden intuition that Jamie was onto something. "Jesus."

"Information that made you a threat," Jamie said.

"The plans for Prescott to disappear." Agitated, Cavanaugh sat up, wincing from the pain this caused his wound. "The son of a bitch."

It was clear to him now that Prescott had realized who was in the helicopters and that he'd been certain this group, unlike the first one, wanted to kill him. He'd known that the assault team would destroy any vehicle attempting to leave the bunker, just as he'd been sure the attackers would have sufficient armaments to blast their way into the bunker and overwhelm the protection team. Seconds away from being killed, he'd panicked. Deciding the only way he could escape was by creating a diversion for the helicopters, he'd started the fire, desperately believing it would give him a chance to slip away, as opposed to waiting for the certain death speeding toward him. But he couldn't stop worrying that a member of the protection team would somehow survive the attack and be captured.

"I think killing us was Prescott's intention from the start," Cavanaugh said. "He had to guarantee that no one would ever know how we'd arranged for him to disappear. That way, he could be sure his secret was totally safe. He wouldn't have to lie awake night after night, fearing that his enemies had tortured one of us into revealing his new identity and where he'd gone."

"But how did he hope to escape the fire?"

"He's extremely calculating. He asks questions. He watches. He learns. I avoided the assault team by staying close to the fire so the thermal sensors in the choppers wouldn't detect my heat pattern. If I could figure that out, why couldn't somebody as smart as he is?"

"There's a big difference. You had me to call for help. But a man that desperate wouldn't trust anybody to come and get him.

You said he's overweight. He'd be able to walk only so far. How did he expect to leave the area?"

"Maybe he did call somebody," Cavanaugh said. "As soon as he was taken to a safe place, he would have killed the person who helped him-to keep that person from revealing where he was."

Jamie's eyes darkened.

"Or maybe he reached the nearest town and forced somebody to drive him. Or maybe…" A sudden realization caught Cavanaugh by surprise. "He can't let anybody know how he's going to disappear."

The agitation of Cavanaugh's emotions made him lightheaded again. He managed to stand. "Where are my clothes?"

Jamie looked alarmed. "You'll fall on your face. What are you trying to-"

"I just realized where Prescott went." He grabbed his cell phone, pressing numbers.

On the other end, the phone buzzed.

"Quick, help me get dressed. I'll need my Kevlar vest."

The phone buzzed again.

"Answer, answer," he pleaded to the person he was calling.

The phone buzzed a third time.

"We have to get to her."

"Her?" Jamie asked.

The phone buzzed a fourth time.

A recorded female voice said, "Leave a name, a number, and a message. I'll return your call as soon as possible."

Cavanaugh canceled the transmission.

"Hurry. There's a woman here in Albany I think Prescott's going to kill."

As Jamie drove quickly through Albany's sunset-tinted streets, Cavanaugh needed all his energy to explain. "We gave Prescott the name and phone number of a bank, along with an account number. After he laundered his money, he was supposed to wire a hundred thousand dollars to a document forger who lives here in Albany."

Following Cavanaugh's directions, driving as fast as the speed limit allowed, Jamie rounded a curve and entered a park. The motion increased Cavanaugh's dizziness, but he didn't let Jamie suspect, for fear that she'd reduce speed. Nothing mattered except reaching their destination.

"The forger had a Social Security number, a passport, a driver's license, a birth certificate, credit cards, an entire identity kit and new name ready for him." Cavanaugh took another deep breath. "All Prescott had to do was decide how he wanted to change his appearance: dye his hair or shave it, put on a fake mustache while he grew one, whatever. Once he made a preliminary attempt to alter his looks, the forger was going to take his photograph for the passport and the driver's license, and Prescott would be ready to start his new life. We'd planned to take him to her yesterday morning."

"Who-"

"Karen Atherton. I've been trying to remember if any of us mentioned her name to Prescott. I think Duncan did. Only her first name. But that, the name and phone number of her bank, and her account number would be all Prescott'd need to find her."

Reducing her speed a fraction below the limit, Jamie passed a police car at the side of the road as she left the park. "How could her account number help him find her?"

"Prescott's hidey-hole at the warehouse was filled with electronics. I'm guessing he's as skilled with computers as I am with weapons. Knowing the bank's name, armed with an account number…" Cavanaugh's voice faltered. "Are you okay?"

"Just getting my second wind." Cavanaugh forced himself to keep talking. "Armed with an account number, a hacker wouldn't take long to get Karen's name and address off the bank's Web site. But there's another way."

Continuing to follow Cavanaugh's directions, Jamie entered an upscale residential district of spacious yards with towering trees in front of remodeled nineteenth-century homes. "How?"

"He's one of the most natural elicitors I've ever come across."

Jamie was familiar with the term: someone with the essential tradecraft ability to draw information from people without seeming to.

"Pretend you work at the bank's account-information department," Cavanaugh said. "I'll pretend to be Prescott phoning you." He made himself sound impatient. "This is about account number five five seven six three. My wife and I got married three months ago. She called your department to change her name and address, but we haven't gotten any statements since then. I contacted the bank several times about this. Damn it, can't anybody down there help? The account should be for Karen Washburn.'"

Jamie took a second to realize what the intimidated bank clerk would probably say. " 'No, sir, Karen Atherton.'"

" That was her name before we got married. The address is Four four four Crestview Lane.'"

" 'No, sir. Two five six Morgan Avenue.'"

" That's where she used to live. That's why her bank statements haven't been getting to us. Would you make sure the changes get made?'" Cavanaugh lapsed out of the impatient tone. "See how easy it is?"

"Prescott's shrewd enough to manipulate people that way?"

"Hell, he manipulated me. What makes me feel especially foolish is I kind of liked him. At the warehouse, he was scared to death, but he never allowed himself to lose control. He did everything I told him to. At the bunker, he wouldn't have started the fire unless he felt absolutely cornered. It's difficult to imagine the amount of courage he needed to try to kill us."