"Right. Why?"

"Who knows? Perhaps because you're a lawyer, not a law enforcement professional. Perhaps they regard you as the least threatening option. But I doubt they'll accept a replacement. If it were possible, believe me, I would do this myself."

Everybody at the table was now avoiding my eyes.

Jennie assured me, "It won't be as risky as it sounds. We do this all the time, usually with kidnappers. We have experts in this field. You'll have the best professionals in the world backing you up."

Very persuasive. So I thought about it a little more. I thought about June Lacy and about Joan Townsend. I really wanted to get physically close to Jason Barnes. I had an almost burning need to put my hands around his throat. Also, if we didn't take this chance, every additional death would be on my shoulders, my conscience, my watch. Could I live with that?

Then again, I'd be an idiot to say yes. It was a desperate gamble and, like all reckless choices, was too obvious, too predictable, too transparent. Jason Barnes, a former Secret Service agent, would expect this; he would know the tricks, and as Phyllis noted, he would have safeguards and precautions. Also, up to this point, I was on the losing team, they were the winning team, and the underlying reasons for that hadn't changed.

When I was young and idealistic, brimming with youthful naivete, I would have regarded this as Sean Drummond's God-given duty in the eternal battle of good versus evil. But I had become too old and too worldly to subscribe to the facile conceit that the good guys always win, or even that the good guys always have to win. The truth is, it can be enough to just make the bad guys go away. Somewhere down in Brazil, I'm convinced, there's a quaint ville populated by smug assholes who gather in the bars every evening and regale one another with tales about how they got away with it. Fine. As long as they weren't still getting away with it.

So I looked Jennie straight in the eye and I said, "Great idea."

Jennie squeezed my shoulder. To Mrs. Hooper she said, "Please call the White House and get authorization." To Mr. Wardell, "Call your old bosses at Treasury. We need fifty million in clean, used bills here in one hour."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

In no time, the room cleared, and bureau experts of various vintages and types began pouring in, including a heavyset Hispanic lady named Rita Sanchez. Jennie introduced us and informed me that Special Agent Sanchez was the FBI's expert in ransom and hostage extremis situations, whatever that means. I was really hoping she was here for her expertise in the former, not the latter.

Rita studied me a moment, then said, "So… you're the sucker, huh?"

I must've looked a little upset by that remark, because she laughed and said, "Hey, loosen up. You're gonna be fine. Payoffs are a Cakewalk. Hostages are the bitch. I've lost only"-she paused and counted her fingers-"only three couriers in my career." She laughed. "The other guy still sends me Christmas gifts."

For some reason, Jennie also found this really funny.

Personally, I thought Rita Sanchez's bedside manner could stand a little work.

Jennie then smoothly backed off and allowed Rita and me to chitchat about inconsequential nonsense for about five minutes. The manual calls this establishing rapport and developing a personal connection. Con men call it sizing up the mark.

Rita was very good at this, and in no time we bonded, were exchanging home addresses, and planning a future vacation together. Not really.

Anyway, Rita Sanchez had a slight Spanish accent, and was a bit plump for an agent, but it has been my experience that in image-conscious organizations that accentuate fitness and trimness-like the Army-exceptions get made for the prodigies. She was not particularly polished, but she struck me as street-smart and savvy.

Agent Sanchez pointed at a chair and said, "Sit. Now we're gonna go over a few things. Listen real close to every word. Seriously. Do everything I tell you, and the Bureau will buy you a nice steak dinner tonight."

Golden words. I sat.

"Let me tell you what could happen," she said. "Then I'll tell you what I think's gonna happen."

"Could we start with what I want to happen?"

She glanced at Jennie and commented, "Hey he's funny"

Jennie replied, "When he's stressed, he responds with sarcasm." She then lifted a hand to her ear and asked, "By the way, Rita, are those your knees I hear knocking?"

Yuck-yuck.

"All right," Rita informed me, "for starters, they might run you around a bit. Probably inside the city, maybe around some built-up suburbs. This way they can blend into the environment and watch for tails."

I nodded.

She continued, "I've seen cases where they ran the courier seven or eight hours. Sometimes they'll run you by the same site three or four times. The smarter ones are trying to draw us to that site. The dumb ones actually use that site for the drop-off. Haw-haw-you wouldn't believe how stupid some of these people are." She turned to Jennie and advised, "He's gotta have a phone jack in the car for his cell phone. Two or three spare batteries, too, some sandwiches and sodas. And make sure the car tank's topped off."

Jennie turned to an agent standing beside the door and said, "Handle that now."

He collected my cell phone and departed.

Rita asked me, "You know D.C.?"

"Where? Oh… that big place across the river."

Jennie said, "Ignore him. He knows it well enough."

"Right." Rita looked a little worried, however, and said, "We'll make sure a map's in the car. Point is, stay cool. They jerk you around, that's a good sign. The pros know the car's gonna have a tracker on it, you're tagged, and it don't really make a damn whether they run you back and forth to Phoenix." She paused to be sure I understood.

"Got it."

"Sometimes, they send you straight to the drop-off. That's usually a bad sign for us."

"Why?"

"Then you're gonna become a hostage. We don't like that. See, the smarter ones, they reverse the process. They'll have their own vehicle, and usually they'll try to make you get in. Got it?"

"Right."

"They'll try all kinds of gimmicks and tricks. Car switches, usually done inside parking garages or tunnels. That kind of shit." She looked at Jennie and said, "Case they get nervous or pissed off, we need to make sure they got another number to call other than his."

"They already have mine," Jennie assured her.

I didn't like the sound of this.

I asked, "Nervous or pissed off about what?”

She turned back to me and, I noted, did not specifically address this question. She said, "But I have to tell you, taking hostages, that's rare. Most criminals are bush league. They think they can outsmart us and they're wrong."

Great. "My question was, in case they get pissed off about what?"

Rita and Jennie exchanged quick glances. Jennie commented, "Sean, we know these people are experienced in killing, and possibly weapons thefts. But expertise in kidnapping is a whole different skillset with a whole different set of risks and rules."

I was being reassured to death and getting a little tired of it. I looked at Jennie, no longer sure whose side she was on. I said, "You and I, we're still watching each other's butts, right?"

She squeezed my shoulder and smiled.

It couldn't hurt to ask, so I looked at Rita. "Ever have a case where they just whacked the courier?"

I saw that evasive look again. "There's no upside in that. Once they get the money, you got no value dead. It only complicates things for them. If they make you a hostage, you only got value alive and kicking. See how that works?" She paused for a moment before she noted, "Unless… well, now, I gotta ask… you done anything to piss these people off?"