A voice on the other end said, “Hey, ah, yeah, this is Alfred Teasely, federal facilities manager at the Capitol. We’ve got a problem with the heating system at the Capitol.”

National Heat & Air had bid for and won the contract to service the Capitol. And since Wilmot owned National Heat & Air, it had not been much of a problem for Collier to reroute their emergency phone system so that any calls coming in to the dispatch line from the 202 area code were automatically shunted to his computer.

“Do you have a contract number, sir?” Collier said.

“I’m at the United States Capitol. How many United States Capitols are there?”

“Yes, sir. I just need a contract number so that I can access your account.”

The man groaned. “Hold on.” There was some brief scrabbling around. “Okay. Eight oh one one five dash three.”

“One moment, sir.” Collier clattered randomly on the keys of the computer. “I show that that is a level-three secure facility. May I have your security code?”

“Nine six four dash Alpha Charlie Seven.”

“Excellent. What seems to be the problem, sir?”

“Well, the whole damn HVAC system just locked up. It’s shut down, and we can’t access the controller. I’m just getting a blue screen.”

“Have you installed the three-point-one-point-two update?” Collier was grinning at Wilmot. He loved all this techie mumbo jumbo.

“I’m checking the upgrade history now,” the facilities manager said. “I’m not seeing anything. I’ve got the damn State of the Union address in twelve hours.”

“Normally we update the software over the Internet. But it looks like . . . yes, sir . . . there seems to be something wrong with the broadband connection. What we’ll need to do is dispatch a team to update that software and get you back online.”

“I just need the damn thing to work.”

“Not a problem, sir. We have two technicians on standby. Let me check the schedule . . . Okay, here we go. I’ve got two of our top guys on call. They’ve been precleared. I’ll dispatch them right away.”

“How fast can they get here?”

“Less than thirty minutes.”

“Give me their names.”

“Right. John Collier and Dale Wilmot. You have a great day now.”

Three minutes later Collier and Wilmot were down in the lowest level parking deck, loading the steel cart containing two canisters of hydrogen cyanide into the back of a slightly battered white panel van that read NATIONAL HEAT & AIR on the side. He’d requisitioned it from the National Heat & Air motor pool, with legitimate plates, VIN number, and registration. Collier had seen to it all.

37

TYSONS CORNER, VIRGINIA

Gideon had lost them.

He didn’t have a tracking device, only the small earpiece that fed him the static-filled audio from the radio Tillman had pocketed.

He still didn’t know which house they were going to, or who was the target. He had followed Verhoven cautiously. Now it was five-thirty in the morning, and the greatest danger was that Verhoven would notice him following them. There were few other cars on the road in the suburban streets on which they were driving. By turning off his lights and trying to stay back at least a couple of city blo3emmmmmmmmdiv> cks, he seemed to have managed to escape detection. The price he’d paid was that at the last minute, he’d gotten separated. He knew that Verhoven had stopped, that the operation was a go, and that Tillman couldn’t be more than a few blocks away.

But the neighborhood was a maze of winding roads lined by nearly identical houses. Now he was blundering around, hoping to stumble on the battered old Honda. He knew that by process of elimination, he’d eventually locate the car. But if Tillman ran into trouble before then, there was no guarantee he’d be able to reach him in time to help.

It had been a clear night when the sun went down, but an hour before dawn the moon was covered by low heavy clouds. The temperature hovered around thirty-five, rain threatened, and outside of the few puddles of light beneath the occasional street lamp, the world was painted slightly different shades of black. Gideon’s mood, too, had gone dark. He hadn’t slept in a very long time. And it seemed like they’d gone deeper and deeper into this thing without really learning anything new.

He stopped at a stop sign and let his engine idle. Left or right? He looked in each direction. There were cars parked on the street both ways, none of them clear enough to identify by make and model. He waited for audio from Tillman, but all he could hear was quiet breathing. Dammit, Tillman, why didn’t you say what street you’d turned onto?

Gideon knew the answer, of course. Tillman had mentioned a few street names as they were driving. But he couldn’t exactly carry on a constant monologue of directions without tipping his hand to Verhoven.

Gideon turned left, driving slowly because his headlights were extinguished, and in the darkness he risked running into something. Eventually he hit a dead end without seeing the Honda. He turned around, drove back until he came to the same stop sign, drove down the next street, hit a dead end, no Honda, came back and stopped at the stop sign again.

As he was idling at the stop sign, trying to figure out where he was, he saw headlights tearing rapidly down the street behind him.

He edged forward and eased into a space next to the curb, then slumped down in the car. His heart rate picked up, and he could feel himself sweating, despite the cold. He put his hand on the butt of his Glock. He could see the headlights slowing. He didn’t move.

Suddenly blue lights began flashing.

He sat up and smoothed his coat, covering the pistol on his hip, and rolled down the window, only to see the car speed right past him.

This can’t be good.

He took off in pursuit.

“Tillman, you need to answer me.” He was practically shouting into the radio. “There’s a cop coming down the street, and he may be headed right for you.”

But the only response Gideon heard was static.

Tillman entered the house and sprinted for the stairs, bounding up them two at a time. Verhoven followed him inside, carrying the guns, while Lorene hobbled in and secured the door behind them.

By the time Tillman reached the second floor, he saw Dr. Klotz at the far end of the hallway, carrying two small children into another bedroom.

The handle was locked. Tillman calmly inserted the pry bar in the door. It was a high-quality wooden door, but nothing special. He pried it off its hinges in three hard strokes, jerked the door open, and charged inside.

He found himself in the master bedroom. The bedcovers were disheveled. On the far wall, another door slammed shut. He studied it carefully. There was no handle, only a very thin crack around the perimeter of the door, which was painted the same flat ecru as the rest of the room. If he hadn’t seen the door slam shut, he would barely have noticed it.

It was a safe room, a panic room, whatever you wanted to call it.

Tillman looked at his watch. 5:34 AM. There was no reason to rush now. Verhoven had cut the phone and jammed the cell phone frequencies. There would be no 911 call.

He placed the radio back in his ear and heard Gideon’s desperate voice.

“Tillman, do you copy?”

“Gideon?”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“There’s a cop outside. He’s walking up to the front door.”

Tillman told Gideon to stand down. He hustled back downstairs, where Verhoven was tending to Lorene on the couch. She was wincing and holding her side.

“Where are they?” Verhoven said.

“They got into the safe room. But we’ve got a bigger problem.”

Officer Leyland Millwood Jr., Prince William County Police badge number 3071, saw the aging black Honda parked on the street. It was the same car a neighbor had phoned in, complaining that it had been circling the block in the early morning hours. It looked out of place in a neighborhood where most of the cars were garaged, and most were new Audis, Volvos, and Acuras. Plus, there had been several break-ins reported over the last couple of months.