Ridgeway had immediately recognized Stratton. But before words could be spoken, hands hustled him out of the limo and into a waiting sedan. Wet, shaking with cold, Ridgeway shivered in the backseat of the sedan as it careened out of the parking lot, Stratton’s partner, Jordan Highgate, at the wheel, Stratton beside him.

Highgate drove the sedan south out of Marina Del Rey. They stopped at a shopping center near Long Beach where Highgate went inside and emerged half an hour later with a set of dry clothes, a paper sack filled with toiletries, and most important, hot coffee. Ridgeway’s hands were shaking so badly that Stratton had to hold the coffee for him, feeding him sips as if to a small child.

The car had been silent as Highgate steered it expertly south, staying off the clogged freeways. Ridgeway drank the hot coffee and dressed himself in the dry clothes, jealously guarding his blood-soaked robe with the thousand-dollar bills in the pocket.

For the first forty-five minutes, Ridgeway was content to be alive, dry, and warming up. But as his body warmed, his gratitude turned to suspicion and, finally anger as Stratton explained that he and Highgate both worked for the National Security Agency.

“That was no accident bumping into you in Zurich,” Ridgeway said.

He stared silently at Stratton as the auto’s tires hissed over the wet streets. “You’ve been following me ever since I returned from Zurich.”

Stratton nodded. “Since the day you walked into the consulate.”

“You were using me as bait, hoping someone would show up,” Ridgeway said. “Hoping you’d catch the people who came to my boat today.”

Stratton nodded again.

“Damn it, man,” Ridgeway fumed. “What gives you the right to play God with my life?”

“It’s not a question of having a right” Ridgeway heard Stratton’s voice behind him now in the motel room. “We’ve gone over all that. I wish you’d get past your anger so we could discuss things.”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Ridgeway snapped as he turned from the window to face Stratton, who sat on the foot of the bed. Highgate stood impassively by the door as Ridgeway regarded the doors and windows openly, sizing up his chances of escape. Stratton saw him.

“Don’t even think of leaving,” Stratton told him. “The building’s locked up like a safe. Steel doors, bulletproof windows, filtered air. The door’s got an electronic lock on it. Nobody gets out without the desk clerk throwing the right switches in the front office, and he doesn’t do that until I give him the code. Nobody gets out Nobody gets in.” He shifted in his seat “There’s really no reason we can’t talk about all this… about cooperating.…”

Shaking his head, Ridgeway walked over to face Stratton. “You’re really something. You lock me up in what amounts to a jail cell and you expect me to sit around and have a chat?” He shook his head and turned away. “Other people may work like that, Mister Stratton, but not this one. I have nothing to discuss with you, not anymore.”