The Firefly

3

Carlton Hallory of the Secret Service Protective Research Unit looked like a worried man when Swamp finally was ushered in to see him. He was in his early fifties. Of medium height and slightly overweight, he had a round face, a receding hairline, dun pouches under his eyes, and the midwinter pallor of a professional bureaucrat. Hallory was the supervisory special agent in charge of the security survey for the upcoming inauguration, and, from what Swamp could see, there were obviously not enough hours in the day or days in the week to get all the bases covered. There had been a steady stream of agents coming and going while Swamp waited in the PRU's small conference room. Every extension light on the conference room's phone had been on continuously, and there was an air of barely controlled panic in the offices along the hallway.

Swamp had known Hallory in his previous life as a director in the Secret Service, when Hallory had been an up-and-coming headquarters staffer. He had a reputation for being smart and thorough, if not overly imaginative. More than a plodder, but not someone Swamp would have put in charge of an extremely dynamic situation. He was surprised at how much Hallory had aged over the intervening years, and he almost felt like apologizing for intruding.

"I can give you three minutes," Hallory said, looking pointedly at his watch. "Hopefully, you're gonna tell me this Nazi thing is a firefly."

"Actually," Swamp began, sitting down, but Hallory cut him off, waving a piece of paper at him.

"C'mon, for Chrissakes, Mr. Morgan, I've seen this so-called transcript. Sounds like some kind of drug addict coming down off bad dope. Heil Hitler? This is a nutcase, not a terrorist."

"Mr. Hallory? You read the papers this morning? See the story about that Homicide lieutenant getting his throat cut last night?"

Hallory stopped his protestations. "Yeah?" he said warily.

"This is going to take more than three minutes," Swamp said. "And, no, I don't think it's a firefly."

Hallory just looked at him for a moment, then picked up his telephone, punched the intercom button, and waited for a couple seconds. "Find Lucy," he ordered. "Get her in here ASAP."

"Who's Lucy?" Swamp asked, a little surprised at Hallory's hostile tone.

Hallory ignored the question. "You're a retiree recall, right, Mr. Morgan? Headquarters DAD for intel before you left?"

Swamp nodded. As if you didn't know that, he thought.

"No offense intended here, but I have to tell you, I don't think this recall program's such a great idea. In my experience, retired guys who get recalled try too hard. Especially senior guys. See shit that isn't there to justify being back in the game. With all due respect, sometimes it gets a little pathetic."

Swamp took a mental deep breath and composed the expression on his face. "If the active-duty guys could handle the job, then I don't suppose anyone would be recalled," he said calmly. "As it was, they called me."

"Yeah, I believe that," Hallory said, either missing or ignoring Swamp's barb. "But that was all nine-eleven panicsville. Over three years ago. We've got things a little better organized these days."

An argument broke out in the next office, the voices carrying over into the hallway through the thin partitions. Somebody banged something on a desktop to make his point. "I suppose," Swamp said, "But listening to this place for the past half hour, I have to wonder."

As Hallory's face reddened, the door to his office opened and a tall blond woman stepped in. "Yes, sir?" she asked. She appeared to be in her mid-forties, with bright blue eyes in a distinctly Nordic face. Her erect posture emphasized her trim figure.

Hallory kept staring at Swamp, but then he answered her. "Mr. Morgan here has himself a theory. About a firefly. Unfortunately, he says he can't summarize it quickly for me, so I want you to take him down to the conference room and let him… expound. Then maybe you can summarize it for me. Assuming it makes any sense. Okay, Lucy? Mr. Morgan?" He passed her the piece of paper he'd been waving at Swamp.

Swamp gave him a broad smile and followed the woman out of the office. She led him back to the conference room. The argument was still noisily going on, so she pushed the door partially shut and sat down at the head of the table. She was wearing a tailored gray business suit and round gold-rimmed glasses. Her ash-blond hair was done up in an elaborately woven bun, confined by a gold clasp. Swamp offered his hand. "Swamp Morgan, OSI," he said.

"Lucy VanMetre," she replied, taking his hand briefly. Her fingers were as cool as her expression. "What did you say to provoke that interesting color?"

Swamp smiled and sat down. "I was the deputy assistant director for intel a few years back," he said. "Before I retired. Got recalled into Homeland Security, Office of Special Investigations, after nine eleven. Mr. Hallory apparently doesn't care much for recalled annuitants."

"Secret Service?" she asked, cocking her head to one side.

"Yup."

"Right," she said. "You're that Morgan. Well, well. It's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I was doing an exchange tour across the river when you were DAD intel. You were very well known over in Langley."

"You mean notorious, probably, but thanks for the compliment. And don't call me 'sir'—I'm just an anonymous working stiff these days. Serving very much at the pleasure of — hell, I'm not sure anymore. Somebody important, I suppose."

"And apparently chasing fireflies?"

"For my sins," he said. "PRU's been fanning out some of the weirder stuff to federal LE offices all over town, what with the inauguration looming in just over a week."

The argument down the hall reached a climax of sorts and then went quiet.

"I do appreciate the strain everybody's under here," Swamp continued. "But this one, I'm afraid, may have some legs. The good news is that it's aimed at the president's address to a joint session of Congress, so there's time to work it."

"Based on Mr. Hallory's expression, working it may or may not be an option. Walk me through it?"

Swamp did, beginning with the initial report from D.C. Arson all the way up to the events at Connie Wall's house the previous night. She did not take notes, but she listened carefully, and he had the impression that under all that spun platinum hair, there was a big brain soaking up every word he said.

"On balance," he concluded, "I think there's something going on. By all rights, that woman shouldn't have bolted like that, not once the cops got there. But she did. And this unknown individual apparently pursued her down the hill."

"And your theory is that this individual was a patient at the clinic, who's now trying to erase everyone who laid eyes on him?"

"Yes," he said, getting up to stretch his legs. The only government furniture that had ever been big enough for his bulky frame had been his executive chair when he was a supergrade. And those days were gone forever, as the choleric Mr. Hallory had so kindly pointed out. Standing, he realized he was towering over her, so he sat back down.

"Evidence?" she asked.

"Damned little, and some of that's in code. Or in German."

"Yes, I see that," she said, glancing at the paper. " 'It will rain dead people.' That's fairly specific."

Smart, and reads German, Swamp thought. Maybe not Scandinavian. "My next step, of course, is to identify which patient made that little speech. We can't know that it's the guy in the bushes out there in Cleveland Park until we get our claws on that nurse again. But if we can get an ID, we might be able to tap some databases."

"We," she said, raising her eyebrows at him.

"Well, I've been tasked to pull the string on this," he said. "By my boss, who's supposedly doing your boss a favor. My unofficial title is intel liaison."

"Which translates into doing whatever OSI wants to shove your way," she said.

"Precisely," Swamp replied. "And PRU, as well, right? What's your background?"

"Math and linguistics at Columbia," she said. "Started out as an Agency analyst, Eastern European division. Got tired of research, so I did a lateral into the Secret Service. Did my probationary tour in New York, then the protective detail, an exchange with the DDO at Langley. Then here. What exactly did you want from Mr. Hallory this morning?"

"Normally, fireflies die in the grass. When they're not fireflies, they come back to PRU for threat analysis. I was bringing it back to PRU."

"Where it bounced, from the looks of it," she said, frowning. "Everyone's under a lot of pressure just now, as you observed. Please don't take it personally."

"I never do," Swamp said. "Especially from people who are in over their heads."

"You think?" she asked, tilting her head again. It was somehow a charming move, but there was a glint of anger in her eyes.

"How many days until the big event?"

"Too few."

"Well then, a properly aimed security survey would have been locked down by now and everyone would be in the 'polish the weapons' mode at this juncture — in my opinion, that is."

"In your opinion."

"Yes. Sounds to me like you're still stuffing snakes back into the box."

As if to make his point, a second argument erupted next door, followed by a slamming door and then a strained silence. Lucy VanMetre looked down at the table for a moment.

"I guess what I'm asking now," Swamp said, "is for PRU to leave this one open for the moment. Won't cost you anything to have OSI gnaw on it some more. We find the hole in my theory, there's lots of other work to do back over at OSI."

"Is that what you want me to tell Mr. Hallory?"

He paused for a moment. He still didn't know what her job was here at PRU, nor had she told him. She might be Hallory's executive assistant, or even his deputy, for all he knew, trotted out in all her splendor to humor the old guy.

"Why don't you tell him that you just… took care of it. Then don't do anything. Don't shitcan it, but don't push it, either. I'll give it another week. Trust me, I've chased enough fireflies to know one when I see one."

She nodded and folded the piece of paper in half, then in half again, in making sharp-edged creases. She stood up and fished a business card out of her jacket pocket. "Call me if you develop anything, Mr. Morgan," she said with a professional smile. "And it's been a pleasure to meet you finally."

"Me, too," Swamp said, suddenly feeling awkward, while at the same time fully conscious that he was being dismissed. He didn't bother to give her one of his cards.

She escorted him back to the security desk for that floor, signed in his visitor's badge, shook hands politely, and sent him on his way. He kept seeing her face as he rode down the elevator. Now that, he told himself, is one smooth operator. He carefully slipped her card into his own card holder.

As he walked down K Street toward the Old Executive Office Building, he wondered again if he'd simply been given a semipolite brush-off by Hallory and his Slinky. But in a way, it didn't matter. He'd come in to alert PRU officially that there was something out there in the woods bigger than a phosphorescent insect. If they chose to ignore it, well, shit on them if it blew up on them later. He made a mental note to back-brief his boss on Hallory's reaction, give him a quick memorandum of the conversation. Do it in writing, just for the record. Then he grinned. Once a bureaucrat, always a bureaucrat.

He'd given himself a week back there. There was, of course, always the possibility that Hallory's instincts were right and that his were wrong.

"Nah," he said out loud, startling a woman who was walking past him on the street.

Connie Wall began to get cold feet, literally, the closer she got to the clinic building. Suppose the cops had it under surveillance? Suppose the District Arson people were there right now, probing through the ruins? Wouldn't that be an inconvenient surprise! She turned down Kalorama Road and slowed her pace, almost not wanting to cover the three remaining blocks. The morning was gray and blustery, and she was very grateful she'd been able to trade off that UPS jacket. She imagined that the entire city was looking for a woman on foot, wearing one of those distinctive brown jackets. But her legs were cold and her feet were freezing.

Two blocks from the clinic, a police car came down Kalorama. She turned into the railing in front of an apartment building and pretended to tie her shoe, but the cop car went right on by, the officer in the shotgun seat busy with some paperwork. Once it was out of sight, she resumed her approach to the burned-out building, only to stop at the final corner. She could see the building, which was still decorated with fluttering yellow tape all over the front entrance. Two men in suits and overcoats were standing on the front steps, going through some papers. She immediately turned around and retraced her steps back up Kalorama. So much for that plan, she thought. She had no idea of who the men were — insurance adjusters, arson investigators, Secret Service. But she wasn't planning to find out.

So now what, Einstein? The wind hit her full in the face as she went back up Kalorama Road. Her toes were beginning to get numb and she knew she had to get somewhere inside before she developed hypothermia. It was going on noon, and she needed a public place that was warm, dry, and, most of all, free. A movie theater? Nothing open at this hour, and definitely not free. Go back downtown to one of the Mall museums? But that would mean being on her feet, and right now, her feet weren't working so well. Then she spotted the public library, right across the street. Hallelujah! Warm, dry, and free. With chairs and a bathroom. Perfect. Stay there until closing time, rush hour again, dusk. Then go back to the clinic. Where there had better be some petty cash left in that safe, or she was going to be in real trouble. She thought about jaywalking but then hurried to the corner to cross the street. This was no time to attract cops. There'd be newspapers in there. Maybe she could find out about Cat. From what she'd seen of the back porch, she wasn't sure she really wanted to know.

Upon returning to the office, Swamp reviewed procedures with Gary White on how to turn on the federal fugitive machinery, which was done primarily through the FBI headquarters. Then he had Gary call the District police to get a status on their search for the missing nurse and anything else he could find out about the incident the previous night. While Gary was dialing through that maze, Swamp called an old friend, Bertram Walker. He'd been surprised to run into Bertie at Caruso's, Swamp's usual dinner spot, only a week ago. Swamp learned that Bertie had been detailed secretly to the campaign staff of the new president when the Agency's Director read the tea leaves and decided the Democrats were going to win this one. He'd been on the road with the presidential campaign for months, and his wife had tired of it, so now he was recently divorced and just beginning to find his way around the solitary dining scene in northern Virginia. Since he was still on active duty in the counterintelligence operations directorate over at the CIA, Bertie was a natural contact for Swamp to pull the string on Lucy VanMetre.

"Hey, Swamp, it's been a week. OSI hasn't fired you yet? Sent you off to work at the Social Security Administration?"

"Up yours, Bertie. Although OSI, SSA? Sometimes hard to tell the difference."

"Well, if it's any comfort, I feel my homeland is a lot more secure with you riding herd on all that fervor and industry. What's up?"

"Tell me what you know about a lady named Lucy VanMetre. Used to work for you guys?"

"Ah, yes. Currently at nine-five-oh H Street, your old headquarters, if I'm not mistaken. Where they call her 'La Mamba.'"

"La who?"

"La Mamba. As in black mamba, the very dangerous African serpent."

"She's hardly black, Bertie."

"Technically, neither is a black mamba, Swamp. But that's inconsequential when one rises up in front of you on the jungle path and you find out that its front half is taller than you are."

"Yeah, I guess I got a little of that, although I think you're being a bit extreme. She told me she started her government service over there."

"That she did. I met her back then, and she was formidable right out of the gate. Came here with a Ph.D. in math from Columbia, said she'd been recruited by NSA but thought the Agency would be more 'suitable.' I think that's the word she used."

"I can't feature her as a street agent."

"Which means she could probably surprise you. But basically, she's never been street. This is one blonde who gets hired for what's above her neck, not below it. So what's shakin' that you're consorting with dangerous creatures like our Lucy?"

Swamp explained the firefly he was chasing, the aspects of the fire at the night clinic that had his attention, and the tie-in with the story in this morning's newspaper.

Bertie was suddenly serious. "Full-scope identity changes? Let's go secure."

Swamp switched his phone, waited for the electronic handshake to subside, and then Bertie was back. "You been to the Bureau with this?" Bertie asked.

"No, I'm staying in Secret Service and OSI channels for the moment. Keeping it in DHS. Our tasking came from PRU. They're up to their hairlines with inauguration preps, and they've been farming out everything they think might be a firefly. I went back there this morning to tell them this one wasn't. Guy named Hallory's running security for the inauguration. He sloughed it off, and I got the Lucy treatment for my troubles."

"What's she do there, exactly?"

"Don't know. Hallory's deputy or EA, maybe?"

"Carlton Hallory? He's been giving us daily gas pains with that inauguration security task force. He and I have some history, not all of it pleasant."

"Well, he basically didn't want to hear it when I said his firefly was refusing to go gracefully into the night. And, of course, I can't prove shit right now, so suddenly Lucy appears to make me feel better while easing my ass smartly along to the ee-gress."

"Yeah, maybe. But listen: Lucy VanMetre is always running her own agenda, no matter where she goes. You think this is for real, you call her back when you get something solid. Despite some of the career casualties bobbing in her wake, she's first and foremost a cryogenic brain. You convince Lucy, she'll get it in front of the director."

"Yours, theirs, or ours?"

"Whatever's best for Lucy, pal. Listen, can I ask that you keep me in the loop on this one? I mean, if it solidifies? I trust your instincts a lot more than some poor sweaty bastard up to his neck in the inauguration security swamp."

"Why, Bertie, I'm flattered. I told you I'm just a recalled annuitant, right? Not SES, not even technically in the Secret Service anymore?"

"Yes, you did. And we all understand that OSI is DHS's version of an intel op. So, please? This might relate to something we've been sniffing."

"Which you cannot share, I presume?"

"For the moment, that's correct, my friend. All I can say is that you might be right."

Swamp shook his head. Agency guys always did this whenever information was traded. Some cardinal rule over in Langley said that the Agency always had to appear to know just a little bit more than anyone else. About everything. You could always tell you were there because they broke into clichés. "Some of those famous straws in the wind, huh?" he said.

"More like burning embers in the wind, Swamp."

"A fire up the canyon?"

"Truly disturbing portents," Bertie said solemnly, going with it. "The real possibility of tectonic shifts in—"

"Bertie."

"Yeah, okay. But saying please here?"

"Okay, Bertie, of course. Can I trust this Lucy La Mamba?"

"To a point. She's a professional, flint-hearted bureaucrat, like the rest of us, so if it ever comes down to you or her, Lucy will save Lucy."

"Well, thanks for that, Bertie. And I'll let you know what shakes out with my firefly."

He hung up the phone and stared at nothing for a minute. So Lucy Van-Metre was a player. La Mamba. Bit over the top, that, he thought. But then, he didn't know her and Bertie presumably did. She'd been professional and perfectly pleasant, as well as positively radiating intelligence. Gary White came walking over, a grim expression on his face.

"Been on the horn with the District," he said. "That lieutenant didn't make it. Stroked out early this morning. Too much blood loss."

"Whoa boy." Swamp sighed. "And I suppose the hunt is on in earnest now?"

"Yes, sir. They're out there tearing up Rock Creek Park again, now that it's daylight. Definitely looking for two people: the nurse as a material wit, and the bad guy, the one who probably laid the blade."

"This in the papers yet?"

"Yes, sir."

"They're hoping she'll read it and come in?"

"Right."

"Did they release that the lieutenant died?"

"Negative."

Swamp nodded. If she thought he was still alive, she might be more willing to surface into their loving arms. "The hive pretty stirred up?"

Gary nodded. Swamp remembered Gary had been a Homicide cop over in Fairfax County. He would absolutely relate to a cop-killer frenzy. He decided he needed to talk to Carl Malone as soon as possible.

Connie had to wait nearly two hours before she could get her hands on the current edition of the Washington Post. Apparently in this branch, the staff got to read the day's papers before the patrons. She had spent the time cleaning up in the ladies' room and then wandering the stacks between sessions of magazine reading in a lounge area. At least she was warm. When one of the staff finally brought the day's papers out to the rabble, Connie covered her face with recent Time magazine until the woman left, then grabbed the morning paper.

The story was featured on the front page of the "Metro" section, along with two pictures: one of Lieutenant Ballard, who was reported in guarded condition at Walter Reed Army Medical Center; the other one of her, taken from her driver's license.

She stared at it in shock, then looked around to see who might be watching. There were two men in the lounge now, older gentlemen, who were pawing through the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. Probably looking for the Post, she thought, so she moved to the far corner of the lounge with the paper, sitting down with her back to the main room.

She examined the picture and tried to think of what she could do to alter her appearance now so that it wouldn't be such a damned good resemblance. Not much, other than go blond in a bathroom somewhere. She felt like putting on the sunglasses, but it would look very strange here in the library reading lounge. Then she felt a presence behind her.

"That today's Post?" one of the old men asked.

"Yes," she said without turning around. Like I'm reading it here, bub.

"If you're done with the front section, can I have it?" he asked.

She casually folded the "Metro" section over and then handed the front section back over her shoulder without turning around. She felt him take it and leave. Some people, she thought. But she was in no position to make a scene or step on the guy's feelings.

So now what? Why not just call the cops and turn herself in? According to the paper, they no longer thought she'd harmed Cat Ballard, and right now, without money, transportation, shelter, or ID, she was as good as homeless. She might find some money at the clinic, but that wasn't really going to solve her problem. But suppose the District cops took her statement, held her for a while, and then handed her over to the Secret Service or the FBI? What had happened to Cat was serious enough, but she could visualize being taken to some CIA farmhouse over in Virginia and worked over by big guys with rubber hoses regarding the goings-on at the clinic.

She felt someone behind her again; now it was the other old guy, probably after the sports page. She turned to snap at him and, whereupon she discovered two large men in suits and two uniformed police officers standing behind her. The staff librarian was standing triumphantly behind them, holding a copy of the Washington Post "Metro" section in her hand.

"Want to come along with us, please, Ms. Wall?" one of the plainclothes cops said, stepping forward with a set of plastic cuffs in his hand.

"They just apprehended the nurse," Malone said. "Found her holed up in a branch library down near where the clinic is."

"Good news," Swamp said, indicating to Gary White, who was sitting nearby, surrounded by the boxes of records from the clinic, that he should pick up the phone. "I've got Gary White on with me. They gonna hold her?"

"Oh yes," Malone said. "They're interviewing her right now. Some of the guys are talking charges for the hijacking, felony with a gun, taking the guy's wallet, evading, et cetera, but of course what they really want to know is who set that blade. And why."

"She probably doesn't know," Swamp said. "But if that clinic fire was deliberately set to kill all those people, the arsonist may be the same guy who iced the lieutenant. She talking at all?"

"Word is, she got her Miranda and took it literally. They're getting her a public defender. The Homicide crew is less than pleased."

"I'll bet. Any chance I can get in line for some table time with her?"

"Right now? I'd cool it, I were you. I talked to the chief of detectives this morning, right after we got the word that Ballard died. The timing wasn't wonderful."

"I understand," Swamp said. "Still, now that she's invoked her rights, I'd like to swing by. Maybe you can tell your people that I've got an angle, and that I'll share?"

"Lemme bird-dog that," Malone said. "I've got your number."

"I'll be here," Swamp said, and hung up.

"They have her on the peripheral charges," Gary said. "She did hijack the UPS truck. And use a gun in the commission of a felony. Big deal in the District."

Swamp rubbed the sides of his face and nodded. "Yeah, but they really want the cutter. She could always say she was fleeing for her life, and they've probably got corroborating evidence that the guy chased her."

"But why did she stay gone?"

"Doesn't want to talk about that clinic," Swamp said.

"She's going to have to."

"And there's the rub, I think. She might be more afraid of this guy who attacked them than she is of some prosecutor. We know absolutely nothing about the attacker."

"We know he was a patient at that clinic. And was German."

"No, we don't. Know that, I mean. We've been assuming all that. In any event, we've got a much bigger problem. The District's got a dead cop. We've got a transcript indicating a possible terrorist attack, a code number indicating that a patient at the clinic made the threats, and absolutely no way to ID that patient."

"I've been through every box of this shit," Gary said, indicating the cartons of scorched papers littering the conference room. "Sampling, admittedly, but Malone was right — they're just fragments. Take months to put this all together."

"We need that code list," Swamp said, standing up. "If it's not here in this collection of burned papers, then it might still be at the clinic. So call Carl Malone, get permission for us to reenter his fire scene, and we'll go back to the source."

Gary looked at him and made a face. "The clinic?"

"Yes, the clinic. Let's go get lunch and then we'll go back out there."

"Let's not and say we did," Gary replied, a worried look on his face. "Lunch, I'm talking about."

Connie Wall sat at the conference table in the interview room, her hands folded in her lap and her eyes looking straight ahead. A policewoman sat at the other end of the table, watching Connie intently. There was a video camera mounted near the ceiling, covering both of them. There were no windows or two-way mirrors in the room, just a bank of fluorescent lights overhead and the single door. Connie understood the matron's hostile expression: The word was out in the hallways that they had someone in custody for the assault on one of their own. At least she had her own clothes back. The forensics people had taken them for two hours after bringing her to the police headquarters.

The door opened, and two detectives in suits came in, one black, one white. She recognized the white man, Jake Cullen, whom she'd met socially before. Jake had known her older brother, and it was actually Jake who had introduced her to Cat Ballard. She didn't know the young black man with him. The matron got up and walked out without a word. The younger detective sat down directly across from Connie, while Jake Cullen sat at the head of the small table. Jake introduced himself as Detective Cullen and the other man as Detective Howell. He stated that the interview they were about to conduct was being videotaped. Connie saw the tiny red light come on under the camera as Cullen was speaking. Jake then read out her Miranda rights and pushed a file folder with the written Miranda warning in it down the table for her to sign. Connie took a moment to read it, just to make sure she wasn't signing a confession or something, but it was identical to the one she had already signed. She scribbled her name on the form and pushed it back. Howell, sitting across from her, just stared at her as if she were an ax murderer.

"Ms. Wall, do you know why you're here?" Cullen asked, making no indication that he knew Connie personally. She played along.

"I presume you want to find out what happened at my house last night," she said.

"That's correct, Ms. Wall."

"What's my status here?" she asked.

"Status?"

"Am I a suspect in a crime?"

"Yes, you are," Cullen said calmly. "Several crimes, as a matter of fact."

Connie nodded. She'd made up her mind about this when she'd first been arrested, and this was not the time to waver. "Then I choose to exercise my rights," she said.

"Meaning what, exactly?" Howell asked. They didn't appear to be playing any good cop/bad cop games with her. They both seemed professionally calm.

"Meaning I intend to remain silent and that I request a lawyer."

Both detectives just looked at her for a moment. Howell pushed back his chair, but Cullen put up his hand. "Do you have your own attorney?" he asked.

Connie shook her head.

"Will you cooperate and give us a statement, tell us what happened last night, once your attorney is present?"

"Probably," she said. "Unless he advises me not to."

Cullen gave Howell a sign and they both stood up. The light went off under the camera. Howell went out into the hallway first, looking angry now, and Jake followed, but then he stopped and turned in the doorway. He cocked his head to one side. "Connie, did you kill Cat Ballard?" he asked in a soft voice.

Connie was shocked. Kill? Cat was dead? Cullen saw the expression on her face. "I'm sorry," he said. "He died this morning at Walter Reed. Did you do that, Connie?"

"Jesus, no," she whispered, unable to find her voice.

Jake was nodding. "We don't think so, either," he said. "But we're not going to be able to catch the bastard who did this unless you help us. We'll get you someone in from the public defender's office. It'll probably take a few hours. You want some coffee?"

Numb, hand to her mouth, she could only nod. She was still trying to get her mind around the idea that Cat Ballard was gone. Poor Cat, she thought. And poor Lynn, the kids. Great God! Lynn would really hate her now.

Jake Cullen left, and five minutes later, the matron came back in, set a paper cup of black coffee down on the table, and sat down at the other end. The little red light on the television camera came back on. Connie smeared a single tear off her face. Cat? Dead?

When Swamp came back from getting a sandwich, Gary White told him that he needed to call Carl Malone. "Said it was urgent."

"Problem with us going back to the clinic?"

"No, sir. Unfortunately. But I think this is about the nurse."

Swamp called Malone's office.

"They interviewed the nurse," Malone began. "Got zip. She's not talking until the public defender shows up."

"What's her attitude?"

"Jake Cullen has the lead on it. Said she didn't know Ballard was dead. He knows her, by the way. He introduced the two of them way back when. Can you believe it?"

"Really."

"She comes from a cop family. Her old man, her brother. Anyway, I just sat in on a meeting. Told the Chief of D's and the case officers about your involvement, and the possible terrorist angle in this case. The chief was a little more receptive this time. Mixed feelings in the room about who does what, who knows what, but he's willing to let you talk to her, long as their guys can sit in."

"You able to get him offstage for a minute, tell him how we want to play it?"

"Yeah. He's cool with that. But time is of the essence. The Homicide crew wants somebody's skin for this. Ms. Wall is the skin in hand, if you follow me."

"We'll be right over," Swamp said, and hung up.

He told Gary White to get them a car and then went in to brief McNamara on what they were up to. Fifteen minutes later, they were signing in at the District police headquarters building. Carl Malone came down to reception to escort them upstairs.

"Got a lawyer for her yet?"

Malone, obviously frustrated, shook his head as they waited for the elevator. "Waiting for a judge to assign one out of the pool. Judge not back from lunch yet — he's giving a speech somewhere. You know how that shit goes."

"Oh yeah," Swamp said. Sometimes he felt he'd spent a lifetime waiting for lawyers and judges. The elevator finally arrived and they got in. Malone pushed a button for the third floor. "So what now?" Swamp asked. "Your guys want me to go in, talk to her now, or wait for the lawyer?"

"Chief said for you to go on in. Detective Jake Cullen will go in with you — he's the lead."

"Do I need to meet with the chief before I see her?" Swamp asked.

Malone shook his head. "Chief said he wants to keep at arm's length on any federal involvement. That way—"

Swamp understood. "That way, something goes wrong, he can deny that he knew anything about any deals," Swamp said. "That's fine with me."

"Probably why he's the chief," Malone said.

Malone took them into the Homicide Unit's office area, through yet another sign-in desk, where they got visitors' badges, and then down a hallway to the office next door to the interview room, where Detective Sergeants Cullen and Howell met them and everyone made introductions.

"Here's what I propose to do," Swamp said without preamble. "I'll go in there and just say my piece. Lay out what I think's going on, and why she should open up and cooperate with you guys."

"She flat said she wasn't going to say anything," Cullen said. "Legally, we have to wait now for the shyster."

"You do if you want to question her," Swamp replied. "I'm not going to question her, at least not directly."

"Huh?" Howell said.

"Just go with me here, Detective Sergeant. Worst that can happen is that she remains silent, which is where you are now. Right?"

There were nods all around. "And in the process, I'll try to elicit some body-language responses — you know, 'Isn't that right, Ms. Wall?' after I lay something out. She nods, you have that on videotape. Not admissible, I know, but you can show her the tape later, maybe expand the dialogue. Like that, okay?"

More shrugs and nods. Then they went into the interview room. The matron got up and took the remains of a vending-machine sandwich and the coffee cup out with her. Cullen, Gary White, Howell, and Swamp all sat down around one end of the table.

"Ms. Wall," Swamp began. "I'm Special Agent Morgan, U.S. Secret Service. You remember me?"

"Yes," she said. Swamp thought she looked depressed, which was appropriate, assuming she'd had some genuine feelings for Lieutenant Ballard.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, and that seemed to surprise her. "I'm talking about Lieutenant Ballard. I've been to your home. Whoever set that trap wasn't fooling around."

She stared down at the table but said nothing. Swamp kept it going, as if this were nothing more than a casual conversation between friends after lunch. "I understand you've elected to remain silent until you get an attorney. That's an intelligent thing to do. I've been told they're waiting for a judge to make the appointment."

She sighed but still didn't say anything.

"I'm not here to question you, Ms. Wall. The District police, Detectives Cullen and Howell here, they have the primary jurisdiction over the incident at your home last night. There'll be no questioning until your lawyer shows up. I'm just here to share my thinking with you. I'll be frank: I hope to convince you to talk to these people. You remember what we talked about yesterday morning? The business about people talking under anesthesia?"

"Yes," she said. Good, Swamp thought. She's engaged.

"You told me then that it was implausible, for technical reasons, but in fact, I have what looks very much like a transcript that was recovered from the ashes of the clinic."

She gave him a wary look but again said nothing. He paused for a few seconds before going on.

"The thing is, this transcript seems to be the record of someone whose mind was adrift, like, say, in the recovery room, as opposed to being on the operating table with all those tubes you talked about."

No visible reaction. She's listening, though, Swamp thought. "And this guy's talking about bombs. And rambling away in German. Our problem is, the transcript doesn't have a patient's name on it, but it does have a code number on it. And we've found that same code number on the clinic schedule, which indicates that this guy was in the clinic the night of the fire. For some kind of lip procedure?"

She was paying very close attention now.

"As the detectives have told you, Ms. Wall," he said, "I'm not here to question you, and you don't have to say anything to me until your lawyer shows up. But let me tell you what I think. I think that Lieutenant Ballard was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time last night. I'm beginning to think that the guy talking about bombs had something to do with that fire, which the District police here think was of suspicious origin."

He paused to let that sink in. "I believe you were the target last night, Ms. Wall," he said, and saw her blink. "That's right, you. Not Lieutenant Ballard. He was a… friend?"

No reaction.

"You called him after we came to see you yesterday, right?" He smiled as he slipped the question in, and after a second, she nodded.

"Perfectly understandable," he said. "A visit from the Secret Service can be unsettling. But here's the thing: Everyone in law enforcement in this city is nervous these days, what with all these terrorist threats, fanatical Arabs flapping around the world, plotting the destruction of our country, nine eleven. We all still remember nine eleven, right?"

Another nod. "Of course we do. I'm beginning to think that this guy who talked about bombs and the end of the world found out that the docs in that clinic were secretly taping their patients, not during anesthesia, but afterward, in the recovery room. And if that's true, then that might explain a motive for that fire. And everybody dying that night. Except you."

He was surprised at her reaction to the last words he'd just said. She put a hand to her mouth and was just staring at him. "What?" he asked gently.

She just shook her head, still staring at him, as if he knew something very important. He wished to hell he knew what it was, but he couldn't stop now.

"The thing is," he continued, "both the District police here and the Secret Service want to catch this guy. They want him for killing Lieutenant Ballard. We want him because we think he may be planning some kind of terrorist act. You're the only one left alive from the clinic. You're the only one who might be able to ID this guy, assuming we can break those codes somehow. That's where we are with this thing. You with me so far?"

She was regaining her composure as she nodded again.

"Now, you're worried you're going to be swept up into some tangle with federal and municipal police authorities over what was going on at that clinic. Perfectly understandable. Let me be frank: There are going to be some hard questions asked, and for that, you definitely want an attorney."

Swamp saw Cullen frown, but he pressed on. "So here's my advice: You talk to your public defender. Lay out the corner you think you're in. You were a surgical assistant at the clinic, correct? A surgical nurse?"

"Yes."

"And I'm willing to bet that those doctors were making money hand over fist. Unlike the staff."

She didn't say anything.

"Point is, Ms. Wall, if the government wanted to nail somebody for doing improper things at that clinic, like secretly taping their own patients, they'd want to nail the doctors, the people who took home all the profit. Not the staff. In fact, they'd use the staff to nail the doctors. That's how prosecutors do things these days. You know that, right? I mean, it's in the papers, every day. Use the little fish to roll up the big fish?"

She started to say something but then stopped. Swamp anticipated what she was going to say. "I know. Neither you nor anyone else on staff at the clinic ever knew what the names were, did you, Ms. Wall?"

"No," she said.

"That's what it looked like to us when we went back through all the records that we could still read. All those coded patient files. No names. Look, the doctors are both dead. I've got search warrants being worked up that will allow me to search their homes, interview their survivors, their families, if they had families, and look at their bank records, their tax returns, their off-site storage, the whole deal. But even with all that, I'm not optimistic. What I really want is that code list. I know you don't have it, right?"

She barely nodded, but he thought it was enough for the cameras. He leaned in closer, almost like a coconspirator. You and me, Ms. Wall. Working together here.

"The government needs your help, Ms. Wall. If you ran from the police, hijacked that truck, took the driver's money, all because you were in fear for your life, then that changes things. A lot. But you'll have to tell the police here that, and also tell them the details of what happened last night that resulted in Lieutenant Ballard getting killed. Details they can corroborate with forensics. Details that will absolutely clear you of any suspicion regarding this homicide. You come from a police family. You know how this works, right?"

Another nod.

"Good. And then the Secret Service is going to try to put some things together, using what's been retrieved from the clinic records, that will lead to a name."

She didn't say anything, just stared straight ahead, as if she knew something that made what he was saying meaningless. Then a thought occurred to him, and now he knew what had been bothering him about getting all those search warrants. Gary had found a surgical schedule that put the transcript guy at the clinic the night of the fire. Which, of course, meant he'd been getting some work done. So even if they did break the code, got a name, ran it, got a description, would that description still fit their guy? Holy shit!

"Mr. Morgan?" Detective Cullen prompted.

Swamp blinked and then went on. "Right. So there it is, Ms. Wall. I know you're scared. I'm sure you're shocked by what happened to Lieutenant Ballard. We all are. But please, help the police out here. I don't think you caused Lieutenant Ballard's death last night, other than that you may have been the real target. If that's true, those other things you did will be cast in a totally different light. Okay?"

A nod.

"Now, you wait for your lawyer, take all the time you need with him, and tell him what I said. Tell him that the government isn't after you for anything except your help. And then you do what you think is right, okay?"

She swallowed and nodded again. Swamp got up and they all went out into the hallway, where the matron was waiting to go back in. Once she closed the door, Cullen confirmed that they had videotaped the entire session.

"This all sounds like you guys are way ahead of us on this deal," Cullen said.

"Not on the Ballard killing," Swamp said. "I meant what I said — Ballard was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But we might know what's behind it. Emphasis on the word might. Problem is, she really doesn't know who this guy is, either."

"She probably saw him," Howell said. "Something happened down there in that park."

"Maybe. But it was dark, right? In the woods, in the park, with no streetlights?"

"Yeah, okay."

"Okay. But I meant what I said in there. The G's not interested in prosecuting her for anything. That transcript is what has our attention. Was this some guy with a midlife crisis fantasizing, or is there a real badass out there with bombs and a mission? You know what I'd do, I was you?"

"What's that?" Howell asked skeptically.

"Get what you can from her once she gets her lawyer. Focus on the incident, she'll probably talk to you. Forget the UPS truck and all that. Stay off the clinic. Then cut her loose."

"Bullshit," Howell said immediately.

"No, not bullshit. Neither you nor we have any idea of who this guy is, or what he looks like. Nothing. But if he's after her, you cut her loose and keep her under surveillance? He'll be back."

"Why?"

"Because he's serious. He's so serious, he was willing to kill a cop. And probably all those people at that clinic fire. For some reason, he needs her dead. So he'll be back. You be there, and you'll get your shot. Your only shot, as best I see it."

"If you're going to use a civilian as bait for a killer, you'd better get her permission," Gary pointed out.

Nobody had a reply for that comment, and then Detective Cullen thanked Swamp for the little session back there with Connie Wall. "That was smooth," he said. "You questioned her without really doing it. Where'd you go there, right at the end?"

Swamp hesitated, but then he realized the District cops had been more than accommodating. "We'd been focusing on breaking that code list, getting a name, then a description, then doing our federal manhunt thing. But if he was at that clinic as a patient…"

Cullen got it. "He may not look like that anymore. Right. That's why you wanted to do this little show this afternoon, wasn't it? You need us to cut her loose."

Swamp grinned. Would that he had been so prescient. "Just so, Sergeant," he said, tipping an imaginary hat. "They said you were smart."

"Now that," Cullen said, "is bullshit." But he was grinning anyway.

"Is anything she said in there admissible?" Gary asked as they headed back to the office. Swamp had decided to walk back to OEOB, to let the brisk January air clear his brain.

"I guess a judge would have to decide," Swamp said. "Part of the Miranda is that anything you do say can be held against you. But she'd also requested to remain silent, wait for her lawyer, so my guess is no. Doesn't matter, though — those guys don't want her for the murder of their lieutenant."

Gary had to hustle to stay up with Swamp as he strode down the sidewalks along Constitution Avenue. There weren't that many pedestrians out, even as rush hour approached, but those who saw Swamp coming managed to step aside. "So what do we do next?" Gary asked.

"I'm thinking of giving up on the code list. What we need to do now is go back through those frigging record fragments again. Only this time, see if we can find that code number and tie it to specific surgical procedures. See how much work this guy had done. If it was just that one procedure, then finding the code list can still help us."

"Just because that code number was scheduled for the night of the fire doesn't prove he set the fire," Gary pointed out. "Remember, the body count didn't include a patient. Guy could have come and gone, and then the torch shows up."

Swamp was waiting for a pedestrian crossing signal, well aware that anyone who jaywalked across Constitution Avenue at rush hour had a death wish. "You're absolutely right," he said. "We just assumed that the guy in the transcript would have a motive to whack everybody there. But maybe not."

"Or, there're two of them," Gary said. The light turned and they hurried to cross the street before the impatient phalanx of commuters executed a Le Mans start on their heels.

"Now that's helpful," Swamp said, and they both grinned. "Let's go see where we are on the warrants, and then we'll go loss that clinic one more time."

"It'll be dark," Gary said hopefully.

"That's why God invented Mag-Lites," Swamp said. "You can actually see things better in the beam of a good flashlight."

"We're looking for one file? A list of the codes and names?" Gary's skepticism was evident.

"Yup." Three cars got into a horn-honking match abreast of them, causing Swamp to hold his ears. "I got Malone's permission to go back in there."

"I would think that if those docs did keep it there, it wouldn't just be lying around in some file cabinet," Gary said. "That had to be some precious information."

"There was that connecting stairway between the night clinic and the day clinic, remember? I wanted to hide something like that, I'd stash it upstairs in the day doctors' area, without their knowledge. In plain sight, if possible. Let's roll."

Forty-five minutes later, they stood in the upstairs clinic, flashlights on, both trying to pretend they couldn't smell the hideous vapors that were still seeping up from the ruins of the operating room below. The upstairs offices were intact but coated in soot, and there was evidence of the intense heat of the fire in the furniture, electronics, and file cabinets. The floor felt uneven, and the carpets had been reduced to carbonized Brillo pads. Swamp swung his flashlight around the walls and realized that what was missing was color. Everything was gray or black. Gary waited patiently for Swamp to start the search, but Swamp was quickly coming to the conclusion that this was hopeless. Finding one piece of paper?

"Okay," he announced "This was a dumb idea. This won't work. Not for one piece of paper. Let's get out of here."

"Fine by me," Gary said quietly.

They found a wine bar three blocks down Connecticut Avenue and Swamp suggested they stop in for a drink. Gary stopped just inside the door and looked around at the half dozen or so all-male couples in the bar.

"Uh," he began, but Swamp chuckled and slapped him lightly on the back.

"C'mon now, where's your sense of adventure, Special Agent?" he asked, and headed for a table. Gary followed reluctantly, trying not to look at the other patrons, who were all looking at them. A middle-aged waiter, dressed in an 1890s costume, complete with an elaborate mustache, came over to take their order.

"I don't spend a lot of time in gay bars," Swamp said quietly. "If that's what you're wondering. But I gotta tell you: I've never had to dodge a bar tight in one of these places, and they're usually a lot cleaner than most straight bars."

"I don't mind being in one," Gary said. "I just don't want to be seen in one."

"Tell me this," Swamp said. "If you were working this case as a homicide investigation back in Fairfax County, what would you do right now?"

The waiter brought their drinks, and Gary waited until he was gone before he answered. "Hand it over to the Bureau?" he said promptly. But then he grew more serious. "Our original tasking was to see if this transcript thing was a firefly. Was it something the Service needed to get into, as a matter of urgency?"

"Correct."

"Based on the transcript alone, I'd say dump it. But with what's happened out at that nurse's house, a cop getting killed, the nurse obviously holding back something? We've got an arson fire where almost the whole night crew was killed, and then this deal at the lone survivor's house? I think somebody's cleaning up after himself."

Swamp nodded. "So what do we do next?"

Swamp knew that Gary understood that he was being tested, and he liked the fact that the younger man was thinking about the questions instead of just popping up with the first thing that came to mind.

"We need help," Gary said. "To really go through all those evidence boxes Malone sent us. To get everything out of that upstairs office, go through all that, too. I was serious about the Bureau: I'd get a team of Bureau forensics people into it. They give terrific fine-toothed comb."

"Looking for?"

"The code list would be nice," Gary said. "A name, address, and phone number would be nice. If we could somehow get a basic physical description of the guy who corresponds to the code number on that transcript, there are people who could reconstruct what he ought to look like now, based on the operations performed."

"Yeah," Swamp said. "Plastic surgeons who can generate a three-D picture model of what your new nose is gonna look like — only in reverse this time."

"But the key is the start point, and for that, we need to lean on that nurse. Maybe fold her into the process."

Swamp was nodding. "She's scared, though. She didn't ice the lieutenant, but she ran anyway."

"Do we give a shit about prosecuting her, or do we want what's inside her head?"

"Right. Maybe I'd better call the District Homicide office before they take me up on my other bright idea."

Gary was nodding. "If it was me, I'd get an assistant deputy AG from Main Justice in a thousand-dollar suit to go talk to the District cops, set up some kind of immunity deal. Then get her together with the Bureau people, let her inform the search. Put together a composite — whatever we can get— get the best description we can, and then go hunt this bad boy down. We have a month, right?"

"In theory," Swamp said. "But first I have to convince PRU. Any DHS request for Bureau assets is going to have to come from the Secret Service. I keep saying I'm Secret Service, but I'm really not. The PRU won't make that request just on my say-so." He thought about Hallory's demeanor at their meeting. "Or ever, perhaps."

"Didn't they call you?"

Swamp smiled. "Yes, they did," he said. "But they didn't seem very impressed with what I brought them. The DHS bureaucracy is a lot more convoluted than what you were dealing with over in Fairfax County. Everybody being oh so careful not to step on anybody's toes. A committee-of-equals theory. A couple dozen scorpions in a fog-filled bottle is closer to the truth."

"What does PRU care if the Bureau works it? Everybody knows those guys are really good at that kind of shit."

"If we surface an actual conspiracy, PRU'd want the credit. The FBI would never allow that."

"Credit? Who gives a shit about credit?"

"Anyone trying to turn an organizational reputation into federal budget dollars."

Gary shrugged, and then Swamp saw one of the patrons giving Gary a not so subtle once-over. Gary saw it, too.

"Let it go, now," Swamp said calmly. "Remember, you're a married man."

Gary turned back to stare hard at Swamp for a second, then started laughing. They finished their drinks and left to go make their phone calls.

Connie Wall couldn't believe that she was being freed. She'd finally gotten to talk to a lawyer, an extremely young-looking black man from the District public defender's office. She'd begun to tell him the background of what was going on, but he had stopped her right away.

"They're gonna cut you loose," he had announced. "Surprised me, too, when I heard the original beef. But I went in, asked the usual questions about charges. Senior Homicide dude just says, 'No charges. We're gonna ask her for a statement; then she walks.' Wanted me to come in here, just so they can say you got your lawyer, because you did ask for one."

She hadn't known what to say to that, and it was obvious that the lawyer thought his time had been wasted. He'd told her she didn't have to give a statement, that all the cops wanted was a sequence of events from the night before. Her side of the story, in other words. She'd told him that she would do that, but not answer any questions beyond that. The lawyer left and then returned with Jake Cullen and the other Homicide detective. They'd put down a tape recorder, opened the interview, and then let Connie tell it. She was done in ten minutes.

"I know you said no questions, Ms. Wall," Jake Cullen said. "But I'd like to ask a couple. You can answer or not, and we'll go with it, either way."

"What kind of questions?"

"Like did you get a look at the guy's face? Good enough so's you could ID him, you saw him again?"

"No," she said. "He did one of those Halloween numbers — you know, flashlight under his chin? All I could see were teeth and eyes. And, no, I don't think I could ID him."

"When you struggled down in the park, did you get the impression he's a real big guy? Really strong?"

She had to think about that. It had happened so fast. "It was dark. I was fighting to get away, and I'm in pretty good shape, but he was able to hold me down with one arm. I got lucky with that one kick, and then he was all done."

"Big, then?"

"No-o. Probably my height. But strong. Very strong."

"What did he smell like?" Howell asked.

"Smell?" She had to think about that.

"You know, stink like some homeless guy, or was he wearing aftershave? Garlic breath? Curry breath? Beer breath? Smoker? Any smells you can remember?"

She shook her head. "It was a fight. My adrenaline was pumping. I smelled and tasted mostly metal. But, no, nothing sticks out."

"He wearing gloves?"

"Yes. I felt leather against my cheek."

Cullen sat back in his chair and punched the recorder off. "Connie, here's one you may not want to answer, but hear me out. As you know, Cat Ballard and I went way back. I went to his wedding, but I also introduced the two of you at that party. I knew he was seeing you. That was Cat's business, none of mine, or ours, for that matter. Okay so far?"

She just looked at him.

"Here's the question: Did Cat come out there last night to socialize, or was he there for some other reason? Had you called him?"

"I'll answer that, as long as you promise that it won't get him in trouble. I mean, I know he's dead, but—"

Cullen put up a hand. "Lemme explain," he said. "If he was there because something had happened, as in he was there as a cop, then there's a way into a line-of-duty finding. You know how this stuff works, right? You follow me here?"

Connie absolutely understood. If Cat had been there for a late nooner, then he was on personal time. But if he'd been there because she'd called him fearing a threat to her life, then he had died in the line of duty, protecting a citizen that he'd also happened to know. It could have a bearing on his estate, and, just maybe they could sell that story to the grieving widow. She nodded. He turned the recorder back on.

"Ms. Wall," he said. "Was Lieutenant Ballard there on official business?"

"Yes, he was. I'd called him."

"Why?"

She went through the sequence of events, including their suspicions that someone had been into the house and left poison of some kind in the milk container. Detective Howell was writing in his notebook. Connie continued. "He said he was going to give the milk container to your lab. Anyway, on Tuesday, I got an anonymous phone call. A man's voice whispering, 'Everyone's dead. Except you.' I got scared, called Cat again. That's why he was there that night."

"This clinic — is that what the Secret Service guy was talking about?"

"Partly. But that's why Cat was there. Actually, we were arguing. He wanted me to come in, make a statement to the government security people. I was… reluctant to do that. Then when the guy threw that thing through the window, that's…"

She didn't finish the sentence, and nobody said anything. She nodded at the tape recorder, and Cullen shut it off.

"That's when Cut went out the door, after the guy."

"And ran into that saw blade."

She nodded. "Now I've got one, Jake."

Cullen blinked and said, "Go ahead."

"I want to go home, pack some shit, get in my car, and get out of town. Just hit the road, get away from Washington. You guys have any problem with my doing that?"

They looked at each other; then Cullen shook his head. "We'd prefer that you hang around."

"But do I have to?"

He raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. "I guess we could tag you as a material witness, get a judge to make you stay in the area. Or we could keep you in custody. But here's the real deal: We can't catch this guy because we don't have the first clue as to what he looks like. All we know is that he's after you."

He stopped and waited for her to get it, which she did. "No way," she said immediately. "You want me to be the bait? To go home, wait by the window for him to do it again? Or to push me under a Metro train one day?"

"Not in those exact words, Connie, but yeah, we do. And let me tell you why you should do it: Until we catch him, your life's gonna be hell. Every stranger you see walking toward you on the sidewalk, every knock on the door, every phone call, you're gonna be asking yourself, Is this him? The guy standing behind you on the Metro platform. The guy who's going the same direction you're going in the grocery store parking lot. Like that."

"Not if I leave town."

"You know that? A guy wants you bad enough to ice a cop? And what if he follows you? And what happens when he finds you? All alone now."

She closed her eyes. "And I suppose you'd have people around to protect me?"

He nodded. "Right."

"Twenty-four/seven?"

"It wouldn't appear that way, but yes. We need him to think he's got a shot."

"Great choice of words there, Jake." He sighed, but then she smiled, and some of the tension drained out of the room.

"Look," she said. "I'm a lone wolf. Cat Ballard was probably my best friend. We go back, too, guys. To before he got married, just for the record, okay? So yes, I'll help you. But listen to me: I didn't do anything wrong at that clinic, except maybe take some easy money."

"And?"

"And the government's looking into what those doctors were doing. I'll take my chances with them. But if I help you, I want your promise that you won't do anything to put me under the government's wheels. Can you make that promise?"

The detectives exchanged glances. "I can," Cullen said. "We're after a cop killer, and between you and me, we're kind of ambivalent as to whether or not his ass survives the arrest. We don't know what the government wants; we never do. But since it sounds like they want this mutt, too, you should be safe from the G. After that, though, it's anybody's guess."

She thought about that for a minute. It sounded like the truth. "All right," she said. "I'll help. Can someone go with me tonight, make sure there're no snakes in my house?"

"Tonight, we'll put you in a hotel," Cullen said. "Give us time to clear the house, make it look like we're all done there. Set up the surveillance operation. Tap the phone. Some other technical stuff. Then tomorrow, we'll announce you've been released but told to stay in town."

"So he'll know."

Cullen nodded. "If he's still around, he'll know."

"Okay," she said. They settled a few other logistics issues, asked her to wait there in the counsel room, and left. Her lawyer got up.

"What do you think about all this?" she asked.

He glanced up at the video camera to make sure it was off. "Florida's nice this time of year," he said as he closed his briefcase.

"You know what I meant," she said. "About being bait."

"Bait gets bitten before the hook gets set," he said. "Me? I'd go to Florida."

Jake Cullen came back into the room as the lawyer left. Detective Howell was not with him.

"How's… how's Lynn coping with all this, Jake?" she asked.

Cullen started to answer but then shook his head. "Her husband's dead. She hasn't asked the hard questions yet." His pager went off. He looked at it and swore. "I'll be right back."

As the door closed again, she mentally kicked herself for asking that question. Then she wondered if she was doing the right thing.

Why start now? she thought.

It was 7:30 when Gary came back into Swamp's cubicle. "Too late, they've let her go."

"Shit. Another one of my bright ideas bites me in the ass."

"Well, I talked to Carl Malone. He says they have her in a hotel for the night, and then they're gonna set up a watch box and see if the guy tries again. He said we needed to talk to Detective Howell in the morning, because he's the one setting up the box."

Swamp looked at his watch and shook his head. Time flew while you were having real fun. "Tomorrow's another day," he said. "I guess we wait. I have to talk to Tad McNamara first thing in the morning. Bring him up to speed, see if he'll go along with folding the Bureau in."

"He'll make it dependent on PRU's read?"

"Probably. Carl say how big a surveillance op they're going to set up on the nurse?"

"He said a rough-and-smooth. They don't have all the assets in the world right now. Or any extra overtime money."

Swamp nodded thoughtfully. "Better than nothing. I hope PRU goes along."

"They work late? Maybe call that dragon lady you were talking about. Telegraph the punch."

Gary had a point. PRU would indeed be working late this close to the inauguration. He nodded. "Good idea. In the meantime, why don't you—"

"Right," Gary said. "Take the rest of the day off."

"Something like that. What's your wife think about your new posting?"

"I'm in the Secret Service. She's still waiting for the White House tour."

After Gary left, Swamp fished out the card Lucy VanMetre had given him earlier and placed the call. He expected a secretary, but then he remembered what time it was. An agent working late in PRU answered, said he thought she was still there, and put him on hold. She came on the line a minute later.

"Developments so soon, Mr. Morgan?" Her voice was cool, a little impatient.

"Can we go secure?"

The telephones did their thing, and then she was back. He told her what had transpired since they'd last talked. "Now I'd like to enlist the help of Mr. Hoover's finest — to do an evidentiary screen of all the medical records in that clinic."

"Why the Bureau and not our own resources?"

"You've got some bodies to spare, Lucy? A week before the big day? And besides, the Bureau's better at this kind of thing than we are. They've got all those specialists."

"That would take the intervention of our director," she said. "To bring in assets from another agency. For what might be a firefly."

"I understand. I suppose I could just run this up to the fusion committee, and they could order the Bureau directly into it. Or order your director to sign off on Bureau involvement."

"The fusion committee? As easy as that, Mr. Morgan? I'm impressed."

He laughed. "I would be, too, if I could swing it. That may have been an attempt at crude bureaucratic strong-arming. You're supposed to be quailing in terror at this point."

He heard her laugh. "The truth is," he said, "I would have to convince my boss to expend political capital with his boss, and then we'd have to gen up a briefing for the fusion committee, probably staff it around OSI, and so on."

"Which is why you want PRU to make the request."

"To sign off at least. But there's a better reason: Wouldn't PRU rather control this investigation?"

"I thought PRU did control what you're doing — PRU tasked OSI, which tasked you. And as I recall, it was fairly limited tasking: Is it a firefly, and if so, say so. If not, report back to PRU, which will handle it from there."

"My problem is that I think Hallory's gonna tank it. Based in no small part on what he had to say this morning. 'Pathetic' as that might sound."

"Handling potential threats to presidential security is PRU's job, Mr. Morgan. You were in the Service. You know how it works. The detail handles the crazies who pop out of the crowd with guns; PRU handles the plotters and schemers, hopefully before they get into the crowd. If Mr. Hallory thinks it's a firefly, then that's his call. It's his to make."

He tried again. "The District cops are going to troll the nurse, in hopes that the bad guy will make another play. If they catch him, the Service can always step in and wave White House security at them, especially since it's the Service that started this ball rolling in the first place. But not if the Bureau has been turned on by somebody else. Then all bets are off."

"Somebody else?" she said.

"We all work for the secretary of DHS. If it escalates to that level, PRU and the Service won't have a pit to hiss in."

"You obviously think that the guy who killed the lieutenant and who's after the nurse is the same guy who did the Nazi rant."

"I don't know that. But I can't find out, either, unless we all take this thing seriously."

"Yes," she said. Then a moment of silence. "Well, it's late, isn't it, Mr. Morgan? I'll see what I can do."

"Bypass Hallory, Lucy. If he doesn't ask, don't tell. If he does, tell him you're handling it."

"Oh right. Cut my boss out of the loop. Is that how you got to SES, Mr. Morgan?"

He took a deep breath. They were going to punt it. He just knew it. "I got to SES by tuning my instincts, Lucy. By being able to tell the fireflies from the firestorms. In advance."

"That was then, Mr. Morgan. Admittedly, you were famous for it. But now I think it's Mr. Hallory's turn."

Swamp hesitated before asking the question that had just popped into his mind. But he had to know. "Do you have the authority to be telling me this, Lucy?"

"I'm Mr. Hallory's deputy, so, yes, I think I do."

Suspicions confirmed. Not an assistant, but the number two at PRU. He should have guessed, if only from her demeanor. "Okay, Lucy. Thanks for taking the call. Let me know something tomorrow morning if you can."

He hung up and sighed audibly. PRU was going to pull it back. We asked you to look at a firefly. You did. You reported. We disagreed. Thank you very much for your interest in national defense and good fucking bye. And if Hallory was really clever, he'd ice the cake with some sympathetic noises to Swamp's boss, Tad McNamara, about how heartwarming it was that the old guys always wanted to get back in the game. We appreciate it, we really do, but, you know, things have changed a lot. We have different sources and methods now. It's too hard to bring the recalled guys back up to speed, what with the press of everything's that's going on. You know how it is… and nothing from our web makes a connection between presidential security and a fire in D.C., or some cop getting his throat cut. A married cop, who was visiting his main squeeze, as we understand it. We don't want the Service involved in tawdry shit like that. You see where we're coming from, right?

But if nothing else, Swamp thought, a cop did get his throat cut. While trying to protect a woman who might have indirect knowledge of a plot to bomb the Capitol when most of the government would be present in the building. That was sufficient reason to pull the string. He thought about calling McNamara at home, then got up and went into McNamara's office to look at his calendar for Thursday. Annual physical exam.

Shit. He'd probably be gone all day.

On the other hand… he'd probably be gone all day. Time enough to maybe start the process of getting some help from the Bureau. He still had some friends over there. If PRU wouldn't investigate it, then OSI would. He'd do some "liaison" work. Right, he thought with a grin. Liaison — that's my job description, isn't it?

One of the building's night security guards stuck his head into Swamp's office and asked how late he'd be staying. Swamp told him fifteen minutes, and the guard withdrew with a two-finger salute.

Swamp looked at his watch. Eight o'clock. He checked his coffee cup, which was a quarter full of what looked like asphalt. He tilted the cup, but nothing happened. He sighed. It was asphalt, solidified after another standard five-to-eight day at the office. At least the guys over at PRU had an excuse. He, on the other hand, had a reason. The longer he stayed in the office, the less time he had to spend at the apartment over in Ballston.

He called Caruso's and told them he'd want his usual single in thirty minutes. That would give him a pleasant hour to hour and a half in the company of familiar waiters and Chef Ricci's excellent food. By then, with the day's edges worn down by a couple of glasses of Sicilian red, he could walk the one block to his apartment building and face the stark, silent apartment with some vestige of equanimity. Then when the black dog of depression came around, he would at least be ready.

Who are you feeling sorry for? his conscience whispered. For you or for her? For us, he wanted to shout, but he knew that wasn't true. Which was precisely why they'd been down on the Tidal Basin that day in the first place.

"Mr. Morgan, sir?" It was the night guard again. "Fifteen minutes?"