“I’m particularly good at that.” Whitman didn’t bother smiling, taking his cue from Cutler’s expression. “What if she could prove to you that she’s a better armorer than Sandy was?”

“I hardly think—”

“That she’s the best armorer you’ve ever seen.”

Cutler laughed. “Boyo, if she can do that, I’ll hire her on the spot.” He shook his head. “But she won’t, and I won’t.”

“Care to make a wager on it?”

“Yeah? How much? I’m not into puny bets.”

“Ten thousand meet your threshold?”

Cutler seemed taken aback. “Well, let’s not go overboard.”

“Don’t want to take my money all of a sudden?”

“No, I simply assumed you were bluffing.” He waited a moment to see if Whitman would confirm his assumption, then he shrugged. “Always happy to make a tax-free ten grand.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now where is this so-called marvel of yours?”

“She’s busy right now.” Whitman gestured with his head. “While we’re waiting, let’s take a peek inside.”

Cutler, checking his wristwatch, said, “I don’t have the time.”

“Make the time, boss. There’s something here you need to see.”

* * *

One of the unsung perks of being hooked so deeply into the U.S. government was ID that gave you access to places like the Smithsonian after hours. The staff actually stayed late to accommodate you. Outstanding.

They passed through the strict security measures and were ushered inside. An attendant asked if they needed a guide, to which Whitman said no. He led Cutler past the rotunda, and the high-ceilinged rooms used for the presidential balls, following inaugurations. He was reminded of Versailles, of powdered wigs and buckled shoes. Not to mention the stink of high-level government. The West Wing contained many of the Institute’s exhibits, including its impressive precious stone collection.

Cutler snorted. “I’ve seen the Hope diamond, thank you very much.” Then, sensing movement to his left, he turned, watched a female maintenance worker paying more attention to her mobile phone call than to buffing the floor. “Another reason why this county’s going to the dogs,” he sneered. “No one takes pride in their work anymore.”

As if she heard him, the woman left her electric buffer, strode toward him. By the time she was two strides away, her mobile phone had somehow been transformed into a knife with a four-inch blade, serrated along its cutting edge and with a wicked-looking gut-hook at the tip.

Cutler was so shocked that he failed to mount a defense as she rushed at him. All he had time for was a step back, which did him no good at all. An instant later, the serrated blade was at his throat. Far too late, he tried to counter, lifting a knee to bury in her groin, but somehow she had pulled what looked like a push-dagger from the buckle of her belt. As his knee rose, she slammed the crescent-shaped butt of the push-dagger onto his kneecap.

“Christ!” Dropping all pretense at defense, he grabbed his knee with both hands, hopping a bit to keep his balance.