The shirt didn't matter to me. Nothing did anymore. Once again I wondered why I was still alive. Because they thought I was CIA? Because I had friends in Washington? Or maybe because they finally believed I was a cop?

I made my way to the main gate. Standing there, filthy and barefoot, with no passport to show, I told the double-chinned marine who got in my face that my name was Alex Cross, I was an American police officer, and I had to speak with the ambassador right away.

The marine didn't want to hear it, not a word.

“I was kidnapped. I'm an American cop,” I told him. “I just witnessed a murder.”

Out of the side of his mouth the marine muttered, “Take a number.”

Chapter 116

I WAS GOING more than a little crazy now, but I had to hold my emotions in. I had stories to tell someone, information to give, Adanne's secrets to share with someone who could make a difference.

I got several minutes of healthy skepticism at the gate before I finally convinced a marine guard to call in my name. The response came back right away: Bring Detective Cross inside. It was almost as if they were expecting me. I wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. Given my recent history, probably not.

The consulate lobby, with its metal detectors and bulletproof glass on all the windows, felt like an urban police station. People were lined up at every desk and window, most of them clearly agitated, waiting to be seen.

All the American accents-and a portrait of Condoleezza

Rice presiding over the room-played tricks with my mind about where I was, and exactly how I had gotten here.

Once inside, I was met by a nonmilitary escort in an off-white suit. He was “Mr. Collins,” a Nigerian of some unspecified position here.

Unlike the marine who'd brought me this far, Collins was friendly and animatedly answered a few questions as we walked.

“There's been at least one rebel attack in Rivers State today,” he explained, gesticulating the whole time. “Much bigger than we've seen before. The government won't admit to it, but the independent media is calling it the beginning of a civil war.”

The populist buzz on the first floor gave way to crisp offi-ciousness and hushed conversations on the second.

I was taken straight to the ambassador's consular suite, where I waited outside his office for several minutes-until a dozen men, black, white, and four who looked Chinese, walked out all at once. Each of them appeared somber and nervous. No one met my gaze, or perhaps no one was in the least interested that I was sitting there barefoot and in rags.

Mr. Collins politely held the door for me, and then he closed it from the outside.

Chapter 117