Less than two minutes left, according to my watch. It was a fifty-fifty chance. In fact, I was halfway through eeny-meeny-miney-moe when my phone rang.

I put it to my ear. A female voice said, "Damn. Confusin', ain't it, Drummond?"

I didn't recognize the voice, but the shitkicker accent was familiar, as was the shitty attitude and the superior undertone, or overtone, or whatever. "Who's this?"

"Shut up. Jus' do what I tell ya. Keep drivin'."

The phone remained at my ear as I drove. I could hear her breathing. Shit-again, I reminded myself to stop underestimating Jason Barnes. Back at 13th and L were two garages crawling with Bureau undercover types. Also, because I was being kept on the phone, I was out of contact with Jennie and Rita, who were probably experiencing heart attacks. A little late, it struck me that somebody should have thought about adding a second cell phone to my arsenal of goodies. The voice said, "Go left on M."

Ahead I saw the sign for M Street, and I noted beside the entry another sign that indicated it was a one-way street. She either sensed or prejudged my hesitancy and said, "Jus' friggin' do it."

Left it was. No oncoming traffic was headed in my direction, which was fortunate, as this big behemoth would have rolled over anything in its path.

About halfway down the block, she said, "On your right… pull into that alley"

I turned into the passageway; it was narrow, essentially oneway, and I saw, about halfway down the alley, the rear of a parked gray cargo van. "I can't make it through," I informed her. "The path is blocked."

"No shit. Put all them suitcases in the van. Hurry your ass."

I pulled to a stop some three feet behind the van, stepped out, and quickly surveyed my environment. The van was a stretched-out Ford Econoline, designed for hauling cargo, with a completely enclosed back, and at the rear and on both sides the windows were darkly tinted.

I left my phone on the driver's seat, dashed to the rear of the Suburban, and began yanking out suitcases crammed with money. Money, at least a lot of money, can be very heavy. My own money, for some reason, is always ridiculously light. Anyway, I was reduced to lugging one case at a time, requiring about three minutes to complete the task.

I looked around again and saw nobody. Not a soul. Still, I had that eerie feeling of being watched.

I felt a wash of relief, and at the same time, to be frank, a little let down. I had really gotten myself psyched up for this escapade, pumped up with good intentions and adrenaline. Now it was over, finis, end of story. I had thought my part was going to be more dramatic, or perhaps climactic, than a simple transfer from one vehicle to another. But Mother Luck seemed to be smiling upon Sean Drummond. The worst case hadn't materialized, I wasn't a hostage, I was still alive, I was free to go on my way

Returning to the phone in the Suburban, I informed the lady, "I'm done."

"No you ain't."

"I'm… what?"

"What are you waitin' for, moron? Go drive the van."

Well, it did seem too easy. I walked the driver's side, opened the door, and noted that the key was in the ignition. I climbed in, started it up, and pulled forward. I got to the end of the alleyway and she said, "Go left, then take a left on 14th."

As the lady ordered, I went left, then left.

After a moment, she said, "Hey, somethin' I forgot to tell ya. Drive real safe, now. No accidents, and be sure to avoid any big potholes, y'hear." She giggled. After a moment she added, "Thing is, remember when we said we had somebody lined up for the next kill?"

"In fact, I was thinking you could do us all a favor and kill yourself. What do you think?"

"Shut up, asshole. Guess what? Ten pounds of C4 and thirty sticks of dynamite are hardwired to the gas tank of that van. Point is… you're the man, Drummond. We push a button and klablewie."

"You… Listen, lady, that would be really stupid. I've got the money."

"No, you're stupid. It's federal money. Plenty more where that came from."

Shit. "I… I understand."

"You better. Now call yer friends. If all the helicopters ain't outta the sky, and all the cop cars followin' you ain't gone in three minutes, you're toast."

She hung up.

I speed-dialed Jennie, who recognized my number and answered, "How you holding up, Sean?"

"We've… I mean… I've got a, uh… a big problem."

In a very reassuring tone, she said, "No you don't, Sean. Remember, trust me. We observed the switch. You're now in a gray 2003 Ford cargo van driving south on 14th. Relax. You're tailed and covered."

"Well… you should probably inform those tails to back off a bit. See, I'm now driving around with ten pounds of C4 and thirty sticks of dynamite wired to a full gas tank. I really wouldn't want anybody to get… you know, hurt."

For a moment there was silence. But my attempt at sarcasm apparently struck home, because it took a moment before Jennie said, "Remain calm."

"Ten pounds of C4 are under my ass, and that's your best advice? Do better, Jennie. Tell me how I'm going to get out of this."

When she didn't answer I said, "Incidentally, you have less than three minutes to get all the helicopters out of the sky and all the trail cars away from me, or I'm hamburger." I added, "Now assure me that you and Sanchez have a plan for this."

But Jennie had apparently handed the phone to Rita, who informed me, "Jennie's getting rid of the cars and helicopters. Just don't sweat it. We'll disperse our ground coverage."

"Don't disperse it-get rid of it."

"I understand."

"You've had cases like this before, right?"

Apparently Rita had to think about that. She said, "No two cases are ever identical. There are always new twists and curves."

"Uh-huh. Tell me about the contingency where the courier becomes a bomb."

"I'll… Give me a little time to think about that."

"Wrong answer. Wrong, wrong answer." I punched off.

My blood pressure had just shot up about a hundred points. Barnes and his merry shitkickers would think nothing of vaporizing me, or even the fifty million disposable bucks in the back of this van. Then out of the blue, a truly disturbing thought popped into my brain. What if this was a dry run? Like an object lesson for Barnes to show the Feds not to try any funny business next time? How do I get myself into these things?

My phone rang. I said, "You've got my attention. Now what?"

But it was Jennie again, who said, "Sean, I'm sorry. We didn't expect this. We're thinking furiously back here. Whatever you do, don't try jumping out of the van. Your seat could be hardwired to the C4. In fact, our technicians consider that… well, very likely."

"I already thought of that. Tell me something useful."

She said, "We thought we should warn you." But in the event I didn't get the moral of her warning, she added, "There's no way to get you extracted. Do everything they say." She punched off.

So there I was on a gloriously beautiful spring afternoon, driving down 15th Street in my favorite city in the whole world, in the very lopsided state of having fifty million bucks in the backseat of my car and a big bomb strapped to my ass.

God looks after fools and scoundrels, but I wasn't sure whether that applied to idiots.