According to her map, the city was located on the Rappahannock River, fifty or so miles south of Washington and the same distance north of Richmond. If her memory was right and Richmond, the capital of the state, had also been the capital of the Confederacy, then Fredericksburg must have been in a hell of a tense spot during the Civil War.

They crossed the river and entered a tangle of streets with rows of minimally maintained buildings. Alison was a block away when Griswold suddenly pulled into a short drive in front of a two-bay cinder-block garage, with separate pairs of doors. She ducked down and peered over the dash as he surveyed the street. Finally, apparently convinced that it was safe, Griswold pulled open the doors of the nearer bay and quickly drove inside.

The street, totally deserted at the moment, had a few duplexes and triplexes but hardly seemed like the sort of place where people paid much attention to their neighbors' business. Five minutes passed. Alison was about to drive past to determine where the man might have gone when he emerged, having changed his black suit for a sporty dark windbreaker and tan slacks and his business shoes for a stylish pair of loafers—European, she guessed. His bulk actually seemed somewhat transformed, although there was little he could do about his thick, stubby neck and bald spot.

He locked the doors behind him and again warily scanned the street. Hunched low behind the wheel, Alison breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, trying to calm herself.

At that moment, again apparently satisfied that he was unobserved, Griswold unlocked the second set of doors. Hinges badly in need of oiling screeched as he swung the doors open and disappeared again into the garage. After a few seconds, the subdued thrum of an engine cut through the still air. Alison slid down even farther, until she could just see up ahead from beneath the top of the steering wheel. The engine noise continued—a low, even, powerful growl. Finally, the agent rolled backward out of the garage at the wheel of a pristine silver Porsche 911 Cabriolet convertible—eighty or ninety thousand at least, Alison guessed.

Clearly anxious to get away as quickly as possible, his pate reflecting the sun, Griswold closed and locked the garage doors, swung out of the drive, and sped back down the street in the direction they had come, passing just a few feet from where Alison was huddled under the wheel.