All of it against the explicit and threatening orders given by the Wolf.

Late that evening I was still going over some of the most recent data that had been collected on Geoffrey Shafer here and in Europe. Europe? I wondered. Is that where this plot is coming from? Maybe England, where Shafer lived for so many years? Maybe even Russia? Or one of the Russian settlements inside the United States?

I read a few reports about Shafer's years working as a procurer of mercenaries in Africa.

Then something hit me.

When he had traveled back to England recently, he'd used a disguise: he'd gone into the country in a wheelchair. He'd apparently traveled around London using the wheelchair disguise. It was also doubtful he knew that we knew.

It was a clue, and I put it into the system immediately. I flagged it as something important.

Maybe the Weasel was using a wheelchair in Washington.

And maybe we were suddenly one step ahead of him, instead of two steps behind.

On that note, I finally called it a night. At least, I hoped the day was finally over.

Chapter 27

Very early the following morning, the Weasel made his way through crowded and noisy Union Station in a black, collapsible wheelchair, and he was thinking mostly happy thoughts. He liked to win, and he was winning at every twist and turn.

Geoffrey Shafer had very good military contacts in Washington, D.C., which made him extremely valuable to the operation. He had contacts in London, too, one of the other target cities, but that wasn't as important to the Wolf. Still, he was a player again and he liked the feeling of being somebody.

Besides, he wanted to hurt a lot of people in America. He despised Americans. The Wolf had given him an opportunity to do some real damage here. Zamochit. The breaking of bones. Mass murder.

Lately Shafer had been wearing his hair cut short, and he'd also dyed it black. He couldn't exactly disguise the fact that he was six foot two, but he had done something better—actually, he'd gotten this idea from an old associate. During daylight at least, he traveled around Washington in the wheelchair, a state-of-the-art model he could easily throw in the back of the Saab station wagon he was driving. If he was noticed occasionally—and he was—it was for all the wrong reasons.

At 6:20 that morning, Shafer met with a contact inside Union Station. They both got on queue—the contact standing behind Shafer—at a Starbucks. They struck up what appeared to be a casual conversation.

"They're on the move," said the contact, who worked as an assistant to a higher-up in the FBI. "Nobody listened to the warnings not to investigate. They've already moved surveillance into the targeted cities. They're looking for you here, of course. Agent Cross is assigned to you."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," Shafer said, and smiled crookedly, as he always did. He wasn't surprised about the surveillance. The Wolf had predicted it. So had he. He stayed in line and bought a latte. Then he pressed a button and the wheelchair rolled to a row of pay phones near the railway station's ticket booths. He sipped his hot drink as he placed a local call.