“AARP,” Carling said. Nobody else laughed. His chuckle trailed off into strained silence.

The two men who got up to shake hands might have been twins, except that Jennings was big and black-skinned, and Mendoza big and bronze-skinned. They both had football builds and chilly eyes, and wore earpieces like Secret Service men.

On the whole, he liked Mrs. Womack better.

“Martin is our data specialist,” Carling explained. “Mendoza, take his bag. I assume the disks and files are in there? Good. All precautions, Mendoza. If you’re ready, gentlemen?”

Carling, like a good defense attorney, always knew the answers before she asked the questions. They exited another door. This one led to a hallway that looked administrative. At the end of a long T-square hall loomed a guard station with metal detectors; Carling reached in her pocket and showed her FBI badge, beeped through without a pause. Jennings and Mendoza followed like the Crimson Tide in plainclothes. Martin was content to hold up the rear; alone in the parade, he didn’t set off the detector.

“Where are we going?” he asked, darting around the linebackers to get to Carling as they went out on the sidewalk. Carling had no time for him. Like the other two agents, she scanned the streets, eyes alert and paranoid, as a dark gray sedan slid to the curb in front of them. She jerked open the door, gave the driver a glance, and jerked her head at Jennings and Mendoza, who crammed into the backseat. She slid in the front and beckoned for Martin to follow.

The driver was Mrs. Womack, she of the deadly lipstick. She swung the sedan out into the traffic circle, watching the rearview mirror.

“Limo?” Carling asked.

Mrs. Womack smiled. “Mechanical problems. I don’t think there’s anybody on our trail, ma’am.” Mrs. Womack’s eyes wandered over toward Martin. “He seems like a very nice young man. Interesting. You know, I think he actually considered whacking me over the head and running for it.”

“My god,” Carling said, and laughed. “Bowling over a granny. Marty, you surprise me.”

“Where are we going?” he asked again, plaintively. Mrs. Womack made a right turn and drove at a sensible law-abiding speed.

“We’re going to take the suitcase to the office, where it’ll be secure. Jennings and Mrs. Womack will spend the evening digging up information about the cleaner with the limousine.”

“Cleaner?” he repeated.

Her smile faded. “Assassin, Marty. They were going to kill you.”