There was to be no debate, no arguing, no denying, no protesting, the voice said. Griswold was to go along with what was being demanded of him or he would be finished—exposed, suspended from his job in the Secret Service, and, in all likelihood, prosecuted. On the other hand, if he did as he was told, there would be more than enough cash to ensure that in a few years, when Beatriz had grown old and tiresome, he would have the resources to recruit and develop her replacement.

Griswold maneuvered the Jeep through back roads he knew well and rejoined I-95 at Garrisonville.

A little paranoid, that was all.

The lab had promised him a report on the prints retrieved from the Marooned on a Desert Isle nail-polish bottle as soon as today. Suzanne . . . child care . . . Fredericksburg. . . . That was the information he had to work with. He had already begun a discreet inquiry into the woman, but as yet, none of his sources had come through with anyone who fit the description. They would, though, he assured himself. If she was for real, they would.

In all likelihood, though, he was making mountains out of molehills. Nothing more than that.

Griswold settled back and relaxed with vivid images of what his evening with Beatriz held in store. She was a quick learner, and easy as hell to program with the use of selected drugs, CIA brainwashing techniques, and, of course, Constanza. Another six months and the girl would be providing him with the most sensual, devoted, custom-made companionship imaginable. In fact, in many ways, she already was.

A final glance in the mirrors suggested nothing out of the ordinary. Griswold slipped in a Grateful Dead CD and dialed up "Truckin'," his all-time favorite cut. By the time the song was done, he was nearing the garage. He licked his lips at the prospect of getting behind the wheel of the Porsche again. The Jeep was serviceable and predictable, but the Porsche was . . . well, Beatriz.

He turned onto Lunt Street and immediately spotted a man with a pry bar, trying to open the lock on the empty right-hand side of his garage. The man, not impressively built, looked like a derelict, with sneakers, shabby pants, a worn tan windbreaker, and a nondescript blue baseball cap.

Over the years, the government had treated Griswold to a variety of courses and refresher courses in defensive and offensive driving, most given in conjunction with firearms training at a reconditioned racetrack in rural Virginia, informally referred to as Crash and Bang.