“I can’t believe it’s taken six days to get all this information,” Kathryn grumbled. “My head feels like it’s going to explode with all the information Charles drummed in to me…us. Finally.” She sighed as she pointed to Charles crossing the lawn, the two dogs at his side. “Damn, will you look at that stack of folders he’s carrying. They must weigh a ton,” she continued to grouse.

Charles handed a folder to each of the women, then stepped back. “Ladies. There’s been a change of plan. Annie, Myra, instead of waiting until tomorrow to go into Bonnie and Clyde’s apartment at the Watergate, you’ll be doing it right after you arrive. Word came in from the men and women who have been tailing them that both Bonnie and Clyde have checked in for the night at the Hiltons where they had their business meetings. No one knows why the change in routine, but it works out well for us.

“So, good luck! Call in every three hours, and I don’t mean every four hours. Three means three, and it also means no one acts independently under any circumstance. Should that happen, you will be extracted. I have already alerted Jack, Harry, Bert, Ted, and Joseph to these new rules. Do any of you have any questions?”

They all shook their heads no. It was Annie who opened the gate to the cable car. She stepped in, Myra behind her.

As the dogs barked, Charles waved nonchalantly and slowly made his way back to the command center.

Alexis shoved her Red Bag, which looked like it weighed a ton, into the cable car before she followed Annie and Myra.

“You look more like Tyra Banks than Tyra does,” Nikki shouted at Alexis. “See you tomorrow.”

Alexis laughed at what she’d accomplished with her Red Bag. She did look like Tyra Banks. She could hardly wait to see Joe Espinosa’s expression when she let herself into his apartment. Would he think that somehow the wrong woman had come calling? What a hoot that would be.

“Do you think we look like two spinster sisters?” Annie asked Alexis.

“You do. Trust me, no one will give either one of you a second glance. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. What I mean is no one who sees you will think of either Annie de Silva or Myra Rutledge. And if, when you’re around people, you can remember to speak that awful German language Charles forced us to learn, you’ll ace your new identities.”

Dressed in prim suits, walking shoes with stout heels on their feet, and look-alike wigs fitted perfectly to their heads, the two women did resemble sisters of a certain age. Both wore glasses with wire rims and had no jewelry other than plain gold wedding bands. Widows, both of them. Each carried a small leather duffel bag that was worn and battered. Two suitcases waited for them at the bottom of the mountain. They were in the trunk of a two-year-old Ford Taurus, complete with an onboard navigator, set to show them the way to the Watergate and its underground parking garage.