It was the truth, as far as it went, but she wasn’t saying how she’d learned he was a fugitive. Charlene Brooker. Either Betsy was deliberately not mentioning her meeting with the young army captain or didn’t think it was important. But the FBI would want to know how Betsy Dunnemore had found out her old college classmate was a fugitive-they’d want to know everything murdered army captain Charlene Brooker had told her. Janssen knew now he should have acted sooner, before Char Brooker had contacted Betsy.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” Betsy said. “What you’re up to-”

“I’m not up to anything. I’m just a man in legal limbo who ran into an old friend-” He smiled, remembering her previous stinging words on that subject. “An old acquaintance.”

Her gray eyes narrowed slightly. “My son’s situation and yours had better be coincidence and nothing more.”

Or what? Nicholas almost asked her, almost called her bluff-fought an urge to threaten her and demonstrate just how dangerous he was. “I’m sure they will. In the meantime, they could cause us both problems. You’re not only the mother of a wounded marshal, you’re a friend of the president.”

“Don’t bring Wes into this.”

Janssen shrugged, rising so that he was a few inches above eye level with her. “Betsy, I’m an innocent man. I want to put my legal problems behind me and do good in the world. You can help me.”

She gave a small gasp that she must have wished she could have held back. “I have no intention of helping you!”

He smiled gently. “You already have. Just seeing you has made a difference to me.”

She took a breath. “Nick, please. Stay out of my life.”

“I had nothing to do with the attack on your son. It’s insane to think I did. But if you tell the authorities about me-”

“Are you suggesting I don’t? What, are you going to threaten me?”

But she regained her self-control and tilted her head back, studying him a moment through those half-closed eyes. They were beautiful eyes. Stormy and vivid, with just enough mystery.

“Why did you seek me out in the first place? The FBI’s going to want to know, if they don’t already.”

“Betsy, remember. I knew Wes Poe in college, too. He was my friend, too.”

She inhaled through her nose. “Don’t you even think-”

“Why, because he complicates everything for you? Or because you know you should have married him?”

“That’s it. I’m leaving. I don’t ever want to see you again. If your men come near me, I’ll call the police.”

“I’m a decent man, Betsy.” He ached to reach her, to convince her. “If I made a mistake in fleeing my country, it was because I wasn’t thinking. I want to go home. I want to see my mother’s grave.”

She stared at him, and he wondered if she was seeing him at eighteen, a misfit intellectually, socially and culturally. She’d tried to help him make more friends. She’d felt sorry for him then-she’d had sympathy for him.

But all that was gone.

He couldn’t count on convincing her to want to step in on his behalf with the president by being nice. He saw that now.

“A presidential pardon would clear my name.” He spoke softly and met her eyes, saw the shock in them. “You could make it happen.”

“Bastard,” she said through her teeth and ran for the door, pushing past a bodyguard who could have snapped her neck without breaking a sweat. Janssen motioned for him to let her go. She gave him one last, scathing look and started for the steep, curving stairs. “Don’t you ever try to contact me again.”

“Betsy. Don’t leave. Not just yet.” He lifted an envelope from a small side table. “There’s a picture of a woman in here.”

“I’m leaving.” But her voice faltered, and she didn’t move.

Janssen withdrew the photograph Charlene Brooker he’d cut out of an Amsterdam newspaper. “You recognize this woman, don’t you? She’s an army captain. You two met last fall.”

Betsy gasped. “What-Nick, what’s going on? Why was her picture in the paper?”

“She was found dead two days after you met with her. Shot in the chest. Point-blank range. Hookers found her in the red-light district.” Janssen set the picture faceup on the table. “Amsterdam’s a safe city, but-” He didn’t finish. “It’s a very sad story.”

“She’s dead? Murdered? My God, I had no idea. Stuart and I left for home a day or two after I saw her. She told me about your fugitive status.” Betsy spoke in a tight, rapid voice. “I didn’t mention her because I didn’t think it was any of your business. I never heard from her again.”

“Perhaps because she was dead.” Janssen eased back onto his chair, aware of how brittle with tension she was. He had to play this moment very carefully. “Another coincidence.”

Her eyebrows arched. He could see her fear now. “How do you know I met with her?”

“It’s not important. But if I know, Betsy, other people know. The FBI will want to know. The Dutch police.”

“I’ll tell them everything, of course, but I don’t even remember the poor woman’s name.”

Nicholas decided not to tell her. He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other.

In the silence, she bit her lower lip and grasped her stomach, as if she might vomit. “Do you believe her killer is also responsible for Rob-for shooting my son and the deputy who was with him? Nick, please. Tell me what you know.”

“Your captain was in army intelligence. Just because she told you about my situation doesn’t mean she was investigating me.” But, of course, that wasn’t true. “Betsy, I don’t need to remind you that your husband is an important man. He has important enemies inside and outside the government.”

“But not violent enemies.”

“Everyone’s violent these days, one way or another. People listen to your husband. The president listens. That makes him powerful.”

“I’m leaving. You’re deliberately trying to scare me.”

“This can all spin out of control, Betsy, if you aren’t careful. I know you want to protect your family. Let me help you.” He let his gaze connect with hers. “Then you can help me.”

But she fled, taking the steep, curving stairs as fast as she possibly could.

Janssen flopped back against his chair and stifled a moan of pain and despair. His head throbbed. He was so tired. But while their meeting could have gone better, it had gone about as well as he’d expected. He’d planted the seed. Soon she would realize that the only way to get him out of her life and to save her family was to use her influence with President John Wesley Poe and persuade him to pardon an old college classmate.

Before his other activities came to light.

When he returned to his beer, there was a call for him. “Is the money ready?” the voice on the other end asked. “You’ll have your presidential pardon within twenty-four hours.”

“What? Who are you? Stay the hell out of my affairs!”

“The clock is ticking.”

“Wait-”

But the caller had already disconnected.