Eventually Jennie went to the fax machine and retrieved the files CID had zipped over regarding our newest suspect, Mr. Clyde Wizner. She tried to struggle through them, but they made little sense to her, and she slid them across the table at me. "Tell me about this guy."

In one way or another, Clyde Wizner might soon be enjoying a very big role in my life, so this was the first useful diversion. Anyway, military files tend to be somewhat one-dimensional and impersonal. They tell you things like where a soldier's from, where he/she has been assigned, how he/she's been trained, and what to do with him/her after they're dead. In short, a great deal about the person and nothing about the personality.

So here's the deal. Clyde Wizner was forty-nine years old, originally from Killeen, the town outside Fort Hood. He had entered the Army at the age of twenty-two in the year 1977, a high school graduate, no college, and had a GT score-roughly comparable to an IQ-of 135. So Clyde was bright and was selected to become an Army engineer, with a subspecialty in EOD, or Explosive Ordnance Disposal-an expertise that takes nerves of steel, a wonderful memory for tiny details and textbook procedures, and a large reliable life insurance policy.

After basic training and a few specialty training courses, Clyde spent three years at Fort Hood, followed by three years in Germany, a year in Korea, three more years at Hood, and then out. Interspersed between those assignments, he attended plenty of additional training, a few leadership courses and a few bombs and mines things to keep him current on the latest battlefield nasties. He remained single and presumably unattached.

He made it to the rank of staff sergeant, and I guess his service was honorable, because I saw no evidence of blemishes, and he was immediately accepted for civilian employment at Fort Hood.

The interesting fact was that Clyde Wizner spent almost seventeen years performing civilian service before he mysteriously walked into his boss's office and quit. He was only three short years from grabbing the golden ring of lifetime monthly checks and half-assed medical benefits. A cynical mind might suspect Clyde had found a better deal. I'm good at cynical.

I glanced inside his thick civilian personnel file and saw exactly what drew Mr. Eric Tanner to this guy. At Fort Hood, Mr. Wizner had worked in the Office of Post Operations, the nerve center of all that did and did not happen across the sprawling base. As long as he cloaked his nosiness, Clyde could access everything from range operations data to weapons shipments, to military police training activities.

I summarized this for Jennie, who commented, "Do you think it was Wizner who made the call?"

"Texan accent… right age… same crappy civilian employee attitude all soldiers know and love. Possibly."

She and Rita exchanged glances again. Rita looked at me and commented, "Whatever you do, do not let on that you know or even suspect his identity. Understand?"

Jennie said, "She's right, Sean. It would be like putting a gun to your own head."

I drew a zipper across my lips.

"I'm serious. He'll Ml you." Jennie added, "But, if the chance comes up, try to get a confirmation. Look and listen for hints or clues to his background and identity."

"Don't worry. Subtlety is my forte."

Nobody seemed to buy that for some reason. Jennie explained, "This could be a huge break, Sean. Even if they somehow get away, it would give us a valuable trail to follow."

"I understand."

The phone rang.

It didn't matter that we were expecting, even anticipating it. Literally, we all three ended up on our feet, staring down at the little cell phone lying on the long shiny conference table like a poisoned chalice. Rita smiled at me and said, "Last chance. You sure you wanta put your head in the lion's mouth?"

I was not at all sure. The phone rang again. I lifted it up, cleared my throat, and said, "Drummond."

"You got my money? All of it?" It was the same raspy bass voice, the same in-your-face tone.

"Fifteen suitcases full. But it's not yours yet, pal."

"Used and unmarked, right, boy?"

I looked at Jennie, who nodded. "I'm assured the money's clean and untraceable."

"Yer friends better be playin' you straight. If not, somebody's gonna be dead."

"Hey, they're federal employees. You can trust them."

He laughed. "Okay… what're you drivin'?"

"A big blue Suburban."

"Got it. Now, here's the way this goes down. There's a parking garage on 13th and L Street. Third deck down. Fifteen minutes. Not a second later. Comprendo? Say it back to me."

I repeated it, and he hung up.

I shoved back my chair and sprinted for the exit, and Jennie and Rita trotted alongside me. Rita gave me a big cotton-candy smile and assured me, "We'll have five units inside that garage long before you get there. They'll never get out."

We were out in the parking lot, where a dark blue Suburban with the driver's door opened was parked and idling. The back cargo area was loaded to the roof with large gray suitcases. I jumped into the driver's seat and took a moment to familiarize myself with the controls. Rita pointed at a little button by the gearshift. "Push that to get the nitrous oxide to kick in."

"Got it."

Jennie grabbed my arm. I turned and looked at her. She informed me, "Rita and I will be in a command-and-control van a few blocks from you." She leaned inside and kissed my cheek. She whispered, "Trust me. I'll get you out of this. No matter what."

"If you don't, I'll never forgive you."

She laughed. It wasn't a joke.

I closed the door and sped off. I glanced at my watch and noted it was 3:00 p.m., not yet rush hour, though this was a city of government servants, who have a habit of knocking off a wee bit early. The traffic was not sparse, but neither was it overly heavy. I floored it and made good time to 1-395, then the 14th Street Bridge, crossed over the muddy brown Potomac, and entered the District, where I was promptly stopped by a red light.

I pounded on the horn, and in return got angry stares and a few middle fingers. In the words of John F. Kennedy, Washington truly is a city with southern efficiency and northern charm. I honked again; nobody budged. I looked at my watch and began to wonder if the green light was broken. Then I glanced down and saw that some smart person had placed a blue bubble light on the floor by the passenger seat. I opened my window, stuck the light to the roof, and then studied the dash until I located a small toggle switch. I flipped it, a siren went off, and the cars ahead of me began scooting up onto the curbs, making a narrow passage. I moved ahead, cautiously looked both ways at the red light, and then pushed the nitrous oxide button and shot through the intersection like a rocket.

I should have been wearing a cape. Actually I should have been wearing a straitjacket. I proceeded north a few blocks, went right, and then left, and ended up on 13th, heading north toward L Street. I detected nobody following me, nobody to my flanks, nobody ahead. But if I took Rita at her word, every other person I saw was a Fed, and every third car was packed with flatfeet, armed, dangerous, and dedicated solely to the preservation of yours truly.

Directly ahead, I picked out the sign for L Street. I reached forward and flipped a switch, and the siren fizzled out. I saw a garage, and then… directly across the street, a second garage. It struck me that we might have a big problem here.

I looked left and right, and indeed, there were two garages. Definitely, both were on 13th and L; one had a sign reading "Partially Full," whatever that means, but neither had a sign reading "Assholes in here."

I had a sudden vision of being stuck down on the lower deck of the wrong parking garage, as Jason and his pals blew down the Treasury Building or something.