Mark Townsend's pupils, I noted, were no longer dilated or unfocused. The fish stare was back in full force, and after a moment he said, "You're a lawyer. Could you get a conviction?"

As he well knew, no experienced criminal attorney, no matter how rich the vein of evidence or how persuasive the case, ever promises a conviction. But he also knew that Jennifer Margold had ordered the murder of his wife. I replied, "I'll guarantee you this-if she gets away, we'll never see her again."

He told Larry, "Pick her up now."

In retrospect, Mr. Townsend's decisiveness was timely and providential.

It seemed Jennie departed her office early that day, complaining of an upset stomach. The onset of her illness came only moments after she spoke with Elizabeth, her gabby secretary, who disclosed both my unexpected visit and my interest regarding her early interest in Jason and his father.

So, the good news. Like her now departed colleagues, Jennie had made no real preparations to escape. I don't think it ever dawned on her that she would lose, and in fact, until that moment, she had every reason to believe she had won it all. The bad news was that it took the FBI two hours to find her name on the manifest of a United Airways flight, high above the Atlantic, three-quarters of the way to Paris, and freedom.

But when you murder the wife of the FBI Director, the wheels of justice do not want for grease. Townsend made a few calls, the pilot turned the plane around, the onboard air marshal changed seats, and he and Jennie became acquainted.

We stayed at the house, swilled coffee, monitored our phones, and traded theories about Jennie, none of which made the slightest bit of sense. At 1:30 a.m., Larry's phone rang; the plane had landed at Dulles International, and the air marshal handed over custody of his prisoner to a team of FBI agents on the tarmac. Jennie was being sped to a federal facility, where she would be photographed, fingerprinted, and our collective hope was she would do everybody a favor and confess to everything. I was sure she wouldn't, but my job was done. I went home.

I went back to work the following morning. Unfortunately I don't wear bad moods well, and within an hour people began avoiding me, which made me happy. Phyllis tried hard to keep me busy, flooding my in-box with memos and wasting my time with unimportant meetings. I don't handle that well under the best of circumstances.

I was haunted by feelings of guilt that I had missed it. I had been right beside Jennie as she ordered those deaths, and had I not allowed myself to become enamored with her, had I kept my eyes open and paid better attention, some of those people might be alive.

Two days after Jennie's arrest, I looked up and Phyllis was standing over my desk. She said, with some insight, "You're useless to me."

"Thank you. I try my best."

"It wasn't your fault."

"No? Who's fault was it?"

"We all missed it."

"You have an excuse. I was with her the whole time."

"By the same token, proximity can be blinding." After a moment she observed, "I worked with Aldrich Ames for years. We often lunched together. I never saw it coming."

"Did you nearly sleep with Aldrich Ames?"

"Oh… well, no… of course not." She examined me a moment, then said, "By the way, we have a very intriguing development in our Oman embassy. A most valuable source of ours was murdered. Our station chief suspects it may have been the result of an in-house betrayal. A team is being sent over to investigate. We need somebody to head that team."

"Sounds interesting."

"I'm sure it will be. Are you interested?"

"Not in the least."

"I think you should be."

"I've been to Oman. It's hot and dusty, there's no booze, the women wear veils, and they don't sleep with Christians."

She ignored this comment. "When you fall off the horse, you have to get back on."

"No… you learn to walk or drive." In case she wasn't getting the message, I reminded her, "Not interested."

"Have I mistakenly given you the impression I was looking for a volunteer?" She threw something on my desk that looked amazingly like an airline ticket. "Depart from Dulles Saturday afternoon. Mort will familiarize you with the details in the interim. Do a good job or I'll make your life miserable."

I hate women who think they know what's good for you.

On the third day after Jennie's dramatic midflight apprehension Larry called, which was an unhappy surprise.

As I mentioned, once you know who, you quickly figure out the whats, whens, and hows-it's the why that often remains elusive. Larry told me they had sweated Jennie for three days and nights without puncturing her shield of sanctity. He said, "You know our problem here? She was a profiler. She helped write the manual on interrogations."

"Then get creative."

He replied, a little dumbly, "We threw away the manual two days ago. Nothing's working. I've got two interrogators experiencing nervous breakdowns."

"Then get new ones. Wear her down."

"I'm talking about the fourth team we've thrown at her. Each day she just hardens."

"No new evidence?"

"None. If she's got the money we can't find it."

"Is her lawyer in the act?"

"Says she doesn't need one."

"Because she's completely innocent."

"She swears it. She's making it really hard on us."

"Alibis?"

"She doesn't know who called Clyde Wizner. Says it wasn't her. Sometimes her cell phone was left lying around, and anybody could've used it. Says she stopped her interviews at Fort Hood after the first two suspects didn't pan out, a more important case came up, and she left. Swears she never met Clyde."

"And the Paris thing?"

"You'll love this. The pressure of the case and the crushing burden of her new responsibilities put her on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She had an anxiety attack only French cuisine could cure."

"So she's introducing reasonable doubt, and you have no proof, no evidence. Nothing to convince a jury she did these things beyond a reasonable doubt."

Larry agreed this was so, and added that the Justice Department believed the odds of a conviction for conspiracy were dropping fast, and the chance of convicting her for murder had nowhere to drop as it was already nil. At best, she'd get five years, maybe less. And Jennie's cocky obstinance indicated she was aware of it. He finally came to the point of this call and informed me, "She says she wants to see you."

"I don't want to see her. Tell her no."

"Just hear me out."

"I'm very busy, Larry I'm going to-"

"You were the one who talked Townsend Into the arrest. You can at least hear what I've got to say."

"Fine. Why does she want to meet with me?"

"You tell me why."

"I haven't got a clue, Larry." Though he and I both knew it was a lie.

But sometimes, Larry explained, recalcitrant witnesses soften up in the presence of people with whom they feel a strong emotional connection. I informed Larry that my emotional attachment with Jennie Margold was the same as a fish to a hook. He laughed. I don't know why; it wasn't a joke.

So we went back and forth for a while, Larry trying to tell me why it was a good idea, me trying to tell him to piss off.

Because on one level, I thought it was a lousy idea, and on another, more personal level, I did not want to ever see Jennie again. I still had not the vaguest idea why she did what she did. I did not want to know.

But back to that first level, whatever romantic sparks had flown between us were hot and deluded on my part, and on her part, a calculated pretense. Jennie suckered me, intellectually and emotionally-she knew it, and I knew it. I was an aching, self-pitying Lothario, Jennie would know this, and Jennie would find a way to exploit it. Putting me in a cage with her was like throwing red meat to a lioness.