It wasn't until Gabe was in a cab headed back to the Watergate that he sorted through the significance of his decision to say nothing to the president about having had lunch with his father. It wasn't an oversight, Gabe admitted to himself, but now just didn't seem like the time to wade into the deluge of questions that were sure to follow. Perhaps he was merely catching onto the Washington game of Less Is More—It Can't Be a Lie If You Never Said It.

Another unresolved issue was who to speak with regarding having a point-blank shot taken at him as he was headed home from the White House. The last thing he wanted, next to being shot, was a Secret Service contingent following him around, and the next thing to that was any sort of leak and the massive publicity that was certain to follow. Until his best response became clear, he had decided, he would just leave things be.

It would be a huge relief to have Kyle Blackthorn on the scene. The psychologist, whose logic sometimes reminded Gabe of Mr. Spock on Star Trek, had an earthy wisdom and perspective unlike anyone else he knew.

First, though, there was the matter of Alison Cromartie—who she was really working for, why she had lied to Gabe, and how she came to steal the blood he had drawn on the president.

At quarter of six, when Gabe arrived at the Watergate garage, the Buick was back in its space with a new rear window and a clean interior. If there had been any damage to the rear bumper, it had been touched up. If the upholstery had been torn by the would-be assassin's bullet, it had been repaired. If nothing else, Alison most definitely had some clout.

Gabe leaned against the car and tried to put together what he knew and what he sensed of the woman. A continuing-ed course he had once attended on psychiatry for primary-care docs had spent an hour on sociopaths—people with little or no innate ability to separate truth from lies, right from wrong. Glib, often charismatic, usually believable, always dangerous. The condition had a formal, for insurance purposes, name—antisocial personality disorder, or something like that. He wasn't sure of the precise wording. Could Alison be one of those? Gabe wished he had paid more attention at the course.

"So, cowboy, what do you think of your new wheels?"

Alison, wearing jeans and a light, zip-up-the-front San Antonio sweatshirt, was leaning against a Volvo, appraising him from no more than ten feet away.

"Can you arrange for one-hour tailoring, too?"

"I can be resourceful, if that's what you mean. Actually, I didn't even have to go through the office for this one. The Colombian guy who owns the auto body shop around the corner from my apartment thinks we are destined to spend forever together. He did this."

"Do you think asking him for favors is leading him on?"