"There, nails were ugly, now perfect," the bellicose manicurist announced. "Now, go dry."

The drying stations were three opposite three. Alison took one across from Beatriz and Connie, trying to frame a question that would further elucidate Griswold's relationship to the two of them while also gauging when she could ask it without seeming too curious.

"I just broke up with my boyfriend," she tried, in English. "He turned out to be a real jerk—you know, all he cared about was himself. Your uncle wouldn't by any chance be single, would he?"

Beatriz clearly understood, because she looked down and was unable to fully stifle an impish grin.

"He is single," Connie said, "but he works very hard and has no time for any women . . . except for his niece."

Again, the sly smile from Beatriz.

Alison's queasiness intensified. Something was going on between Griswold and the girl. The deepest parts of Alison's intuition were telling her so.

"Ah, well," Alison said. "A man wrapped up in his work is not exactly what I had in mind. I want one who will be all wrapped up in me."

It was time to stop. She had been luckier than she could have ever anticipated being. Now she could drive back to D.C. and ponder the big question: Was there any possible connection between what she had learned about the man today and his misuse of the president's inhaler?

The ring of Connie's cell phone—"La Vida Loca"—burst in on Alison's thoughts.

Expertly careful of her nails, Connie answered it, speaking in a polite half whisper that it was still impossible for Alison not to hear.

"Yes? . . . We are doing fine. . . . She's perfect. Very happy. . . . She chose Scarlet O'Hara, your favorite. . . . Yes, she misses you. . . . Well, we'll be home soon. . . . It is still early. If you wish to go for a ride in the country with her, that would be fine. You know how she loves riding with the top down. . . ."

Again, a restrained smile from Beatriz.

"Dígale que venga a buscarme," the girl said softly.

Tell him to pick me up.

CHAPTER 30

Shingan.

Blackthorn was registering at the front desk of the airport hotel when he first became aware of the man, standing not far away to his right. It was his heartbeat that first caught Blackthorn's attention—less than forty a minute, with startling power in every contraction. The man was standing virtually motionless, taking eight or ten deep, even breaths each minute.

Power, Blackthorn thought. Power and danger.

Blackthorn picked up his overnight bag and briefcase and headed toward the elevator. The man followed but stopped as Blackthorn knelt and fumbled with the latch on his briefcase until an overweight man and his equally overweight wife moved past him, both breathing heavily from just the simple act of moving.

"How're you doing?" the large man muttered to the dangerous one, who grunted irritably in reply.