"Bite me. Stupid."

"I guess it doesn't get much worse than this. It is stupid. I'm sorry."

"My God, just figure out what comes next. We'll both be happier. At least you will and then I can lighten up too. So far this imaginary pregnancy is no fun. I just worry about money."

Right about then Morgana realized Caroline was being serious. Caroline was worried about Morgana's next move. She had probably been fearful about this the whole time Morgana was so sick. Now Caroline just couldn't hold it in any longer.

Morgana propped up on one elbow, facing her. "Linus, maybe I made a huge blunder resigning my job. What was I thinking? I didn't even give it a chance to see what kind of compromise we could make over lawsuits. Duh."

"No, they asked you to hide records and forge records. It was no mistake."

"I don't know. Maybe it's grow-up time for me."

"Meaning your next move hasn't come to you out on the basketball court."

"Hasn't revealed itself yet, no."

"From where I stand, you're too good and decent to throw in with those wolves. We'll find some other way to pay five grand a month. Maybe my dad will help."

Morgana moaned. The thought actually made her nauseous. Again. There was no love lost between Mr. Merriweather and her. Morgana actually still called him "Mister" and her father-in-law still hadn't suggested Morgana use his Christian name. Even after all these years of Morgana sleeping with his daughter. On the other hand, maybe that was why he preferred "Mister": he hated Morgana.

"I can't be in debt to your dad. He already thinks my rising star will flame out at any second."

"He loves you."

"Wrong. He's stalking me. He's waiting for an opening and then he'll jump."

"My dad doesn't stalk."

"Caroline, you really mean he loves you. I think I'm going to go back to A.W. and see if they'll maybe let me do it my way."

"Meaning?"

"Play by the rules and win by the rules."

"And lose by the rules. Not a chance. They're not throwing away a million-dollar judgment just because you're a decent girl."

"Hey, it never hurts to ask. Besides, we need the money. Look, we're both ready for a baby and I've got student loans out the rear. What if I swallow my pride and get back in there and prove that I can win by the rules. They don't have to know I'm turning over original records AS-IS."

"Not scrub the files? What if you get hit for twenty million? Then what?"

"I think I'm good enough to prevent that from happening."

"Hey, it's your career. If you think this might work for you, so be it. I just want you to know that I'm here for you. We're here for you. She patted an imaginary fetus in her abdomen. "In my dreams, eh?"

"Let me sleep on it." She buried her face in her pillow.

Caroline slapped her across the rear. "No, I need you to go maternity shopping with me. My wardrobe calls."

"We're really doing this baby thing, aren't we." It wasn't a question.

"We are. It makes no sense but at the same time it makes great sense. Whether we do or do not get pregnant, you're going to take care of us. I trust that because I trust you."

Which was when it all became clear to her.

She would definitely call A.W. She would definitely return to Jones Marentz and pick up where she left off. She was a star and right now that sounded like everything to her.

She wouldn't get hit, either. Not even a judgment for one dollar.

20.

It was early spring when Christine confirmed their location.

The duplex on Milwaukee Avenue was two-story, white-face, wrought iron bars on the downstairs and upstairs windows, entrance in the middle of the building, double driveway on the north side that ran back along the duplex to what Christine guessed was the garage. But who could tell? They were Pakistanis; they could be assembling a nuclear weapon back there for all anyone knew. Hadn't the FBI said national security was in play?

Next door south was a one-man pizza joint, Bud sign in the window, and next door north was a Mobil station and Quik Stop. Christine pulled into the Mobil and cleaned her windshield.

Now she had to ask herself, if I were going to shoot someone, how could my legal training help? Obviously, she knew she didn't want eyewitnesses. No-brainer. Second, no demonstrative evidence such as guns or photos, no papers such as receipts from gas stations in the vicinity, and no circumstantial evidence. Circumstantial evidence equaled opportunity, in the prosecutor's arsenal. Did the defendant have the opportunity to commit the crime? Which meant Thaddeus and Christine couldn't allow anyone to place them within ten miles of the killing zone when the shots were fired. This requirement guaranteed that any alibi story would hold up.

But most of all, Thaddeus had to get the FBI off his tail, if he was to be the shooter. Which he was demanding. She looked back up the block. All clear. She pulled her VW bug boldly into some stranger's driveway as if it belonged there. She called Thaddeus and told him what she had found. He didn't know if the agents were tailing him, but since the run-in with Agent Pepper he would have bet money they were with him 24/7. What's a couple more sharks to a government that owns a whole ocean? It was time to make a judgment about the troops committed to the pursuit.

So he hopped on the Kennedy and drove from Chicago west. Ten miles flew by. He took the ramp for Arlington Heights. This was a small city west of Chicago. Still following him? He had no way of knowing, but the assumption was always positive.

He found the Arlington Heights Metra train station and parked right beside the tracks. Inside the station he sat down across from the Avis window. For an hour he sat there and counted noses and memorized faces. After an hour the waiting room crowd had turned over a hundred percent. None of the original twenty-five faces remained. Satisfied he hadn't been followed inside the building, he ambled up to the Avis counter, where he rented a Lincoln. They gave him the key and he headed back outside. But instead of claiming the Lincoln, he found his Volvo down at the other end of the parking lot and climbed inside. He took his time, in case they were following, because now he wanted them to vacate the lot with him.

He turned the key, drove back through town to the freeway, and jumped the Kennedy heading eastbound right back into Chicago. The day was warm so he cranked the sunroof and dialed in NPR. Maybe he made them behind, maybe he didn't. From all his criminal work he knew it was very hard to spot a vehicle tail. Reason was, more than one vehicle would be used to pursue you. Sometimes three or even four. And when that was the case, eyeballs could not be trusted.

Besides, at that point, he didn't care.

Downtown Chicago, and he beelined to the Northwest Train Station. Twenty minutes later he was through gate eleven jumping the stairway into a westbound Metra Train.

The Metra was much slower than the drive. It made umpteen stops and passengers crawled on and off. Still, he had been unable to guess which of the passengers were special agents and which were accountants, commodities brokers, or computer geeks. His next move would sort all that out.

Finally they made the Arlington Heights stop. He rushed forward through the cars and reached the exit closest to the Lincoln. He jumped down the stairs and ran, jumped inside the Lincoln and floored it. In a great rush he tore out of the lot and flew to the freeway. Making a right on red, he hit the onramp at 65 MPH. Then he was in the fast lane and the huge engine quickly shot him up to 85. He took the next off-ramp, went north across the overpass, and pulled into an Exxon. He parked alongside the Men's and waited. Nothing came and nothing went, nothing was waiting back across the overpass. After ten minutes he was sure he had lost the tail. It looked like his scheme had paid off.

He raced the Lincoln back up toward the duplex on Milwaukee, where he swerved into the Mobil. He parked in the service lane, four back, where he could see the duplex.

Twenty minutes passed. But he was patient.

At last an occupant appeared and jumped into a red SUV. For one instant he caught a look of the man's face and shot a picture with his 300 mm lens. He swung out of the service lane and fell in behind the red SUV. As they began making their way south on Milwaukee Avenue, Thaddeus compared the camera shot to the FOIA pictures. Instantly he made the guy. His name was Maliki Al-Salim, code name Data.

According to the FBI file, this guy had helped arrange the transfer of money from mobster Mascari in Chicago to Ragman. Which meant that Maliki Al-Salim was a key player in Sarai's kidnapping.

Which also meant that he would be the first to leave this earth.

Thaddeus would be all over it.

21.

Thaddeus followed Maliki Al-Salim from Niles, west and south to Wood Dale. His prey parked in a racquetball club parking lot. Thaddeus watched as he went around to the rear door, removed a gym bag, and loped up to the clubhouse. The handle of a racquet could be seen protruding from the gym bag as the guy disappeared inside.

Thaddeus waited. He studied his cell phone for texts while he passed the time. Nothing new. So he texted Christine and told her he was over east, in Indiana, checking out antique stores. Anything to throw them off. She texted back. Had he found the duck decoys he wanted for duck season? He replied that he had and that he was studying the prices. She texted back that he should not overspend and he replied that he certainly would not, that he knew the value of the decoys. She replied, Good hunting!

It was ninety minutes before Al-Salim reappeared. Same clothes, same gym bag, sunglasses, hurried walk. He darted several looks around at parked cars as he made his way back to his red SUV. Thaddeus, at the far end of the lot, went unnoticed.

Or so he thought.

The Paki pulled up to the exit, but before crossing the sidewalk he suddenly put it in park and opened the driver's door. Thaddeus, who had been following close behind, saw the parking lights suddenly flare and saw the door open and saw the guy heading directly for him. What the hell, he thought. This guy's made me!

He jammed on the big Lincoln's brakes, threw it in reverse, and then roared forward and around Al-Salim. He purposely cut it very close and he could see the guy jump back behind his own SUV. Thaddeus pulled his cap low across his face as he went around, so his face was partially covered. Then he floored it and headed for the freeway. At the on-ramp there was no one following and he jammed the pedal to the floor; the Lincoln shot up to 110. What the hell, he thought, it's a rental. The guy will never see the car again. But the downside was if the guy made the license number. It didn't take rocket science to trace the plates back to Avis and then pay someone for the driver's name and address. Thaddeus felt a cold child race up his spine as he realized that he may very well have again put Katy and Sarai at risk. He cursed himself and slammed his fist against the dash. He would have to get rid of the guy and fast. He could only hope that there had been too much commotion plus the narrow miss that the guy was too busy evading the Lincoln to get the plates. But here he was again, operating on hope, something he loathed to do where his family's well-being was involved. They were his blood and he owed them his life in the fight for their safety and well-being. Never mind, he would make it happen for Al-Salim.

And soon.

But it was too damn close, nevertheless. He would have to get a lot smarter and fast.

That racquetball club gave him an idea that slowly formed in his mind as he made his way west to Arlington Heights.

Racquetball would be perfect.

22.

Maliki Al-Salim, code name Data, loved racquetball.

If he had any weakness, drilling an adversary squarely between the eyes with a 90 MPH racquetball coming off the far wall did it for him. Data played in Wood Dale, a small town south of Niles. It was a private club but, Thaddeus found, allowed day-guests to play there as long as they were willing to pony up the hundred-dollar court fee. Thaddeus entered through the front doors, inhaled the overpowering smell of steam mixed with chlorine coming from the steam rooms and spa, and told the drowsy young girl working the register that he'd like to just stick his head in and check out the courts. Without a word, she nodded and waved him through. Nice, he thought, I'd definitely want her having first contact with my customers if I owned the place. Oh, well.

A plastic map on the hallway wall led him to the courts. There were twelve courts, it turned out, six down, six up one floor. All were vacant except one, where a father and son batted the ball around, the father constantly interrupting the workout to instruct his son on the finer points of where to hit the ball in order to make it unreturnable and such tips as that. He stood in the hallway and watched for probably five minutes, studying the hallway traffic, who came and went, what employees were nosing about, that kind of information that would prove invaluable later.

Then he returned to the front desk. "I need lessons," he advised a young man who had evidently replaced the original clerk.

"Sure, one?"

"I need a week's worth, starting today, if that's possible."

"Let me check." The young man lifted a microphone, clicked the button, and paged "Chuck" to the front register. Within minutes a very hairy young man with a sweatband, wearing a white tee and white shorts, came bouncing up.

"Yes, Skipper," he said, ignoring Thaddeus. "What's up?"

"This gentleman wants lessons starting today."

"Can do!" said Chuck. He extended a hand to Thaddeus. They pumped hands like old friends and Chuck sized him up. "Ever played before?"

"Never. But I'm anxious to learn."

"Grab your gym bag and get changed. We'll meet on the practice court. That's last court upstairs, far end of hall. See you in ten."

Thaddeus registered under the name of George Aulistta and paid cash. No ID was requested, none given.

Thaddeus changed, took the forty-five-minute lesson, and cleaned up in the dressing room. The entire time he was committing to memory all hallways, stairwells, steam room, locker locations, shower rooms, entrances, and exits. By the time he pulled out of the lot an hour later, he knew the place by heart.

He returned the next five evenings and carefully improved his game under the watchful eye of Chuck.

Chuck thought Thaddeus was a natural; Thaddeus was certain Chuck looked at him and saw dollar signs. When the week was over, Chuck wanted to continue, promising to take Thaddeus' game to "the next level." Thaddeus politely declined, saying he was happy with the level he had reached.

Regretfully, Chuck watched his big fish saunter off to the locker room. He slapped the wall and returned to the machines where he could watch a certain young trainer working the stations with an obese older woman. It was a great place to work and within ten minutes Chuck forgot he had ever met the attentive young man who wanted to learn the game as quickly as possible. Chuck had bigger fish to fry. Romance was always just a station away.

23.

Maliki Al-Salim was a champion racquetball player in his age bracket, and a Ph.D. candidate in computer engineering at Northwestern. His club racquetball tournament record was 40-0. He had become a millionaire at twenty-seven, thanks to a software startup that located parking places and electric car charging stations, a father at twenty-seven, and married at twenty-eight.

Scrambling forward and back, left and right on one of the 1,200 racquetball courts in Wood Dale, Maliki Al-Salim was a muscular man whose face, even at play, showed worry lines beyond his years. His opponent inside the four walls of the racquetball court was a nondescript, brown-haired thirty-something who had barely broken a sweat. Suddenly there was a loud banging on the glass and Maliki Al-Salim raised his hand to pause the game. He poked his head out the door. Two Middle Eastern men waited to speak with him. Unknown to Maliki Al-Salim, the two men were undercover FBI agents who had infiltrated Maliki Al-Salim's terrorist cell.

The shorter, bearded agent pressed close to his face. "Congrats, Maliki. I hear it went quite well in front of the Ph.D. committee today."

Al-Salim checked up and down the hallway before responding. "Well as could be expected. The dissertation defense is presented. How did you men find me here?"

"Relax. We've got your back. We are your guardian angels. We will make sure nothing comes up. Not until the event. Then, who cares?"

"We will receive our reward from Allah. Paradise awaits."

Al-Salim scowled and backhanded sweat from his brow. "The package is in place. The core is on its way from Mexico. Please stop following me. I am good."

"Ragman asked us to protect you until the package is assembled. You're safe and tonight we'll even drop around and tuck you in bed."

"Yeah? How do I know they're not outside planning to arrest me while you're in here talking to me?"