The words came out wrong and I looked at Burns, but he waved me off. "Do you think he missed? Or was Tom Weir the real target?" he asked.

"My guess . . . Weir was the target. I don't think the Wolf made a mistake. Not one this big. I do think he lied about what happened."

"Any idea why? Anybody?" Burns glanced around the room.

No one spoke up, so I continued. "If Thomas Weir was the target, it's the best clue we have. Why would he be a significant threat to the Wolf? What could he have known? I wouldn't be surprised if Weir and the Wolf knew each other from somewhere, even if Weir wasn't aware of it. Weir is important. But where would Thomas Weir have come across the Russian? That's a question we need to ask."

"And then answer in a hurry," said Burns. "Let's get on it. Everybody—and I mean everybody—in the Bureau!"

Chapter 36

The man who had made the most recent phone calls for the Wolf had his instructions and he knew enough to follow them precisely. He was to be seen in Washington. That was his piece.

The Wolf was to be seen, which would definitely cause a stir. Wouldn't it?

The phone calls he'd made to FBI headquarters and elsewhere would soon be traced to the Four Seasons Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue. It was part of the current plan, and the plan had been nearly flawless thus far.

So he calmly walked down to the hotel lobby and made certain he was noticed at the concierge desk and also by the couple of doormen out front. It helped that he was tall, blond, bearded, and wore a long cashmere coat. All according to the plan he'd been given.

Then he took a leisurely stroll along M Street, checking out restaurant menus in the windows and the latest fashions of Georgetown.

He found it somewhat comical that he could actually see police cruisers and the FBI as they sped toward the Four Seasons from several directions.

Finally the man stepped into a white Chevy van that was waiting for him at the corner of M and Thomas Jefferson.

The van sped away in the direction of the airport. In addition to the driver, there was a second man. He sat in back beside the one who'd made the phone calls from the Four Seasons.

"It went well?" the driver asked once they were a few miles from M Street and the commotion going on there.

The bearded man shrugged. "Of course it did. They have an accurate description. Something to go on, a little hope, whatever they want to call it. It went perfectly. I did what was asked of me."

"Excellent," said the second man. He then pulled out a Beretta and shot the blond man in the right temple. He was brain-dead before he even heard the explosion.

Now the police and FBI had a physical description of the Wolf—but no one alive matched it.