There was no answer.

With a dreadful sinking in her gut, she accelerated and pulled out into the passing lane.

CHAPTER 40

Treat Griswold had no idea why he suddenly turned off at the Dumfries exit except that he had been feeling edgy since an unknown, exotic-looking woman with light copper skin had struck up a conversation with Constanza and Beatriz in the manicure parlor. They had strict instructions to avoid prolonged conversations with anyone and to report any unusual contacts to him. This they had done.

He swung onto the exit ramp too rapidly and felt the Jeep's center of gravity lurch to the right. But even though the years had been somewhat unkind when it came to the muffin top overlapping his belt, his coolness in crisis and his reflexes were as sharp as ever. There was no rollover, and from all he could tell through the rearview mirror, there was no one following him, either.

He was a little paranoid, he told himself. That's all. Just a little paranoid… not that he didn't have every reason to be.

Whoever had tailed him last year-a hell of a thorough private eye, he guessed, or maybe someone from one of the other agencies-had mapped out his secret Richmond life in agonizing detail, complete with photos and video. The night the phone rang for him at the Beechtree Road house, the man on the other end had his ducks in an absolutely perfect row.

There was to be no debate, no arguing, no denying, no protesting, the voice said. Griswold was to go along with what was being demanded of him or he would be finished-exposed, suspended from his job in the Secret Service, and, in all likelihood, prosecuted. On the other hand, if he did as he was told, there would be more than enough cash to ensure that in a few years, when Beatriz had grown old and tiresome, he would have the resources to recruit and develop her replacement.

Griswold maneuvered the Jeep through back roads he knew well and rejoined I-95 at Garrisonville.

A little paranoid, that was all.

The lab had promised him a report on the prints retrieved from the Marooned on a Desert Isle nail-polish bottle as soon as today. Suzanne… child care… Fredericksburg… That was the information he had to work with. He had already begun a discreet inquiry into the woman, but as yet, none of his sources had come through with anyone who fit the description. They would, though, he assured himself. If she was for real, they would.

In all likelihood, though, he was making mountains out of molehills. Nothing more than that.

Griswold settled back and relaxed with vivid images of what his evening with Beatriz held in store. She was a quick learner, and easy as hell to program with the use of selected drugs, CIA brainwashing techniques, and, of course, Constanza. Another six months and the girl would be providing him with the most sensual, devoted, custom-made companionship imaginable. In fact, in many ways, she already was.

A final glance in the mirrors suggested nothing out of the ordinary. Griswold slipped in a Grateful Dead CD and dialed up "Truckin'," his all-time favorite cut. By the time the song was done, he was nearing the garage. He licked his lips at the prospect of getting behind the wheel of the Porsche again. The Jeep was serviceable and predictable, but the Porsche was… well, Beatriz.

He turned onto Lunt Street and immediately spotted a man with a pry bar, trying to open the lock on the empty right-hand side of his garage. The man, not impressively built, looked like a derelict, with sneakers, shabby pants, a worn tan windbreaker, and a nondescript blue baseball cap.

Over the years, the government had treated Griswold to a variety of courses and refresher courses in defensive and offensive driving, most given in conjunction with firearms training at a reconditioned racetrack in rural Virginia, informally referred to as Crash and Bang.

He had practiced the maneuver he reflexively chose a dozen times, and accelerated into it without hesitation. Engine roaring, he barreled directly toward the man, who stood as if transfixed, staring wide-eyed at the fast-approaching grille. At the last possible moment, Griswold slammed on the brake and spun the steering wheel hard to the right. If he handled the maneuver correctly, the rear end of the Jeep would spin around and the thief would be virtually pinned to the garage door. If he missed, even a little, the man's lower body and the heavy wooden door would become one.

The spin was perfect. Tires screeching and smoking, the Cherokee spun just over 180 degrees, tapping gently to a stop against the garage and cutting off the derelict from any escape except to his left. That route vanished before the man could react as Griswold, pistol in hand, leapt from the Jeep, raced around to where the grimy intruder still stood, grabbed him by the front of the jacket, and slammed him against the garage door. The pry bar clattered to the pavement.

The look in the man's eyes was unmistakable panic. He smelled densely and unpleasantly of alcohol and hard times.

"P-please don't hurt me."

"What in the fuck are you doing?"

"Everything all right?" a woman's voice called from somewhere down the street. "Do you want me to call the police? I saw everything."

"No!" Griswold snapped over his shoulder. "I can handle this… Well?"

"I… I was just lookin' for somethin' I could sell," the man managed, his speech thick and clumsy. "These are hard times, you know."

Griswold jammed the barrel of his pistol up under the intruder's ribs.

"You lying to me? You lie to me and I swear I'll blow you away. Why'd you pick this place?"

"I… I couldn't get into the one over there. I was just workin' the street. Honest, mister. I was just workin' the street."

At that instant, Griswold's cell phone began ringing. With his gun still pressed firmly against the man's gut, Griswold released the wind-breaker, checked the caller ID, and set the phone against his ear.

"Griswold here."

"Griz, it's Harper at the lab. I think we've found a match for those prints on the nail-polish bottle."

"Can you hold on for a minute?"

"Sure, but hurry up. I think you're going to want to hear this."

"Just hang on."

Griswold turned his attention back to the thief, who now was beginning to cry.

"P-please. I'm living on the fucking street. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It won't happen a-"

"If I see you around here again, you're dead. Got that? Dead!"

Griswold stepped back, opening a way out for the man. Tentatively, the derelict moved forward a few steps. Then, in an awkward, stumbling gait, he headed down the street, waiting until he was around the corner before cracking a smile.

"Okay," Griswold said, again pressing the phone to his ear. "What gives?"

"What gives," the crime lab specialist said, "is that the prints match a Fed."

"A what?"

"A Fed. In fact, if I'm not mistaken, she's Secret Service. Just like you."