She heard someone writing on a piece of paper and tearing it from a pad.

In his chair at the security center, Max grinned. “I love it when a plan comes together. We gotta get Demidov away from the FBI before they figure out who he is. I’m e-mailing this to Marta in case she didn’t pick it up.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

Simon’s voice again.

On the speaker, a man and woman said good-bye to Simon, and the sounds diminished to footsteps and distant voices.

Max chuckled and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head.

“That Simon guy is no Rambo.”

Rudy headed toward the Nautilus multigym. “The first Rambo movie’s okay, but I like the first sequel more.”

He did some upper-body stretches.

“The one where he goes back to Vietnam?” Max asked. “You’ve gotta be kidding. Russians look like idiots in that one also.”

“Hey, it was the Cold War. You need to give the movie some artistic license. How much weight do you think Stallone bench-presses?”

“More than you.”

With a shrug, Rudy sat at the machine, gripped two handles, and exhaled as he pushed his arms out and away from his body.

Weights lifted.

Liz’s wrists jerked up, her zip-tie cuffs caught in the mechanism.

Rudy noticed and laughed.

Inhaling, he returned to his original position and pushed out his arms once more.

Again her wrists were yanked up.

She stared at the cuff and realized it was being pinched. She wriggled her arms around so the tie was in the center between her wrists, and gritted her teeth as Rudy continued the exercise.

“Remember that scene where Rambo was tied to upright bedsprings,” Rudy said, “while the Russian interrogators ran electricity through the metal springs, torturing him?”

“Where would they have found bedsprings in the jungle?” Max asked.

“You’re starting to get on my nerves. I told you. Allow for artistic license. So Rambo starts shaking and shaking from the electricity, rattling the bedsprings, and all of a sudden the guys torturing him realize what’s happening, and Rambo’s so crazy with pain and rage, he—”

The sound of a car door being opened through the speaker interrupted them.

“Tysons Corner,” Simon’s voice said to someone.

• • •

THE TAXI TOOK AN OFF-RAMP from the rush of traffic on the 495. Avoiding the huge shopping malls and corporate buildings that Tysons Corner was known for, it reached a quiet street of attractive houses and expensive landscaping. Conscious of how swiftly time was passing, Simon forced himself to follow protocol, giving the driver an address two blocks away. The watcher at the safe house would think it suspicious if he arrived at the front door in a taxi rather than first cleaning his trail on foot. Paying the driver, Simon waited until the taxi disappeared around a corner.

As dark clouds threatened rain, he pulled out the cell phone he’d been given and hurried toward his destination. He continued to assume that anything he said could be overheard, so he didn’t bother using the number programmed into the phone and instead spoke directly to the blank screen.