Impatient, Palbone thought. If there's anything you need on surveillance, it's patience. Plus a convenient place to piss.

Scolino put her phone down.

"There's Lassiter!" she shouted in Palbone's ear. "With the man he followed into the terminal."

Palbone watched the big lawyer and the guy in the army fatigues and Windbreaker. He remembered Lassiter as a second-string linebacker with the Dolphins. No speed but a hitter. He looked as if he could still take care of himself.

"Look, they're hugging!" Scolino said.

"I see. I see. Maybe a couple of queers."

"Palbone, you're a Neanderthal."

"Hey, I watch the sports. Some football players been coming out of the closet lately."

"Jesus. I thought the FBI was doing sensitivity training."

"That's what some of us call 'nap time.'"

"Palbone, you are so burned out, your ashes are cold."

"No shit." He squinted through the windshield. "Hey, I recognize the guy in the fatigues."

"Why didn't you say so? Who is it?"

"When I was staking out Benny Cohen's house, that guy would come and go. I think he works for Benny."

"I didn't expect this," Scolino said. "Lassiter in bed with Benny Cohen. And, no, Palbone, I don't mean they're gay."

Scolino's cell rang. Caller ID said "Unavailable."

"Yes?" she answered in a conspiratorial whisper Palbone found amusing.

Scolino hit the speaker button. On the other end of the line, Special Agent Lauren Dunlap said, "American Flight 944. Arrives Philadelphia twelve thirty a.m."

"Did you get a seat?"

"Boarding now. Subject is three rows ahead."

The line clicked dead.

"Palbone, didn't you used to work in the Philadelphia office?"

"Yeah. Back when William Penn was laying out the streets."

"Who do you still know there?"

"At this time of night, no one."

"Call the duty agent. Tell her to line up two cars."

"Her?"

"Him or her. Get with it, Palbone. Two cars. Four agents. Have them at the airport at half past midnight. I don't know if Lord is being picked up, if she's taking a cab, or renting a car. But we can't lose her."

Great, Palbone thought. Some Philadelphia agents lived across the river in New Jersey. Some were far west of the city near King of Prussia off the turnpike. Wherever they lived, four very pissed-off agents would be pulling all-nighters. Because of one very paranoid assistant US Attorney in Miami.

Palbone saw Scolino typing on her cell phone browser. Now what?

"There's a seven a.m. flight to Philadelphia," she said. "I'll be on it and catch up with the team. You, Palbone?"

"You sure you don't want the Eighty-Second Airborne, too?"

"I take that as a no."

"Take it as a hell no."

Deborah Scolino didn't seem to care. She was working something over in her mind. "Jake Lassiter and Benny Cohen," she said. "I never would have guessed."

-43-.

The Dew Drop Inn The thought came to Nadia Delova in the early morning while curled up with Gerald in the fluffy sheets at the inn, and it brought a smile to her face.

I am in love with a pretzel baker from Pennsylvania.

Not just any pretzels. Hand-rolled, sourdough Pennsylvania Dutch beer pretzels. How proud Gerald was. The best flour, the best yeast, the best malt. Everything with a personal touch. After the pretzels popped up from the boiling soda ash, little old ladies salted them and placed them in ovens Gerald's grandfather had used.

On the cans was the slogan: "Hostetler Pretzels: Hand-rolled, hand-salted and hand-baked."

No mention, however, that this sweetly traditional way of baking furnished only a hand-to-mouth living. Nadia would like to help with that.

She knew better than to say, "You would probably make more money with new machinery." Because Hostetler Pretzels and Chips Company was steeped in family and history and love. As for the chips, they had stopped making those forty years ago. No way to compete with the major companies. Thankfully, the factory had been in the family for four generations, so the building and land were owned outright. So was his old stone house. Gerald could take home a middle-class income, but that was all.

Now Gerald breathed deeply as he slept in bed next to her. They had made love. Three times. As a lover, Gerald was caring and giving . . . and grateful. As if he couldn't believe his good fortune that such a goddess of a woman would bestow her gifts on him. As opposed to Benny. A small man, and what he lacked in size he did not make up for in technique.

Pump-pump-pump. Ahhhh.

The ahhhh being Benny's. Not hers. Then he would topple off her like a sparrow shot from a tree limb.

Benny treated her as he might a prized possession, like his Bentley. There was the diamond pendant, of course. And the other presents. Prada purses. Valentino shoes. Which, ironically, helped create her persona as the wealthy and wild European tourist looking for a hot time. Instead of a lying, swindling, watch-stealing Bar girl, which, let's face it, was what she was.

But now there was Gerald, and she felt true love for him. The dear man had taken her to the Dew Drop Inn, a bed-and-breakfast in a three-story Victorian home, located just off the Old Philadelphia Pike. The day before, they had visited an amusement park called Dutch Wonderland. They had ridden the merry-go-round and the twister and had banged into each other in bumper cars. An old-fashioned place filled with families. Nadia had watched the laughing children, faces plastered with cotton candy. It had been years since she'd even thought about having children of her own, but now she did. Now, with Gerald, she felt ready.

She had met Gerald sitting at the bar in the Clevelander. Elena had given him the thumbs-down. No expensive watch. A brown suit that yelled department store rack. But Nadia wanted to go for him, so she did it solo. There was something about his mild, handsome face. The blondish hair, receding just a bit. He had been talking to the bartender, telling him, very politely, that the pretzels in the little bowl were overcooked and oversalted. The bartender had said he ordered the extra salt. A thirsty customer is money in a bartender's pocket.

Nadia had slipped onto the next bar stool and said hello. She asked if he liked French champagne and American jazz. He said he'd never encountered much of either one, but why the heck not?

It only took two vodkas to knock him sideways at Anastasia. Then came the bottles of champagne, and he whipped out his credit card without her urging. Within an hour, he was trying to buy the black velvet painting of the Kremlin that hung behind the bar.

Sometime during the evening, as Gerald was telling Nadia about the seventh-century French monks who invented pretzels to represent arms crossed in prayer, she started looking at him differently. He was drunk. Helpless. Adorable.

She put him in a cab and took him back to his hotel. Instead of fleecing his pockets for cash, she tucked him into bed and sat in a chair, watching him sleep, until she dozed off herself. The next morning, he awakened with a hangover and apologized in the event he had taken advantage of her the night before.

They spent the day together. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. No booze. Much talk. She told him about growing up outside Saint Petersburg. Always tall and gangly, at sixteen, she had suddenly become beautiful to others. She modeled, dropped out of school. Tended bar.

Then, with a deep breath she said the Lord's Prayer to herself in Russian, or at least the part about forgiving our trespasses: "Prahsty nahm dahlgee nashee."

And she told Gerald Hostetler, square American guy from Pennsylvania, the truth: "I am B-girl."

He looked at her with puzzlement. Did he not understand?

"Bar girl. I work for Club Anastasia. To take your money."

Still, he did not speak.

"I was arrested in Estonia and Latvia." Tears welled in her eyes. "I have not been the person I wanted to be."

She feared he would leave then, but he did not. He told her about himself. The factory passed down to him from prior generations. It barely made money, but he had thirty-seven employees. All those families depended on him.

"Back home in Lancaster, I belong to the Lutheran Church. I am very good with my hands. Maybe from rolling so many pretzels. So I volunteer for the bike ministry. We fix bikes for poor children. Some are teenagers who have gotten into trouble. No one looks after them. We take them on overnight bike trips. Camp out. Cook out. It's very fulfilling."

"Is wonderful thing to do," she said.

"I believe in redemption."

They spent the next night together in his hotel room and made love for the first time. And the second and third. She decided in the morning that this was a man she could love. Truly love, not pretend.

Gerald had a speech to give at his snacks convention, so she went to the club to process the reversal of charges on his credit card. When she returned to the hotel, he asked if she would like to see southeastern Pennsylvania. Of course she did. She would have gone anywhere with him.

There were things she did not tell Gerald. The criminal charge-the stolen watch-from an unhappy customer. The federal immigration violations. The threats that she would be charged with federal crimes, imprisoned, and then deported if she did not cooperate. Her decision to wear a wire and try to get Nicolai Gorev to say what the damn government woman wanted. If that was the only way she could be free to join Gerald, then she would take the risk.

Gerald went home to Pennsylvania. Afraid of facing Gorev alone, she hired Solomon, the lawyer she saw on television shooting the guns. Of course, no one was supposed to get hurt. All she really wanted was her passport and the money-more than $20,000-that Gorev owed her. Then she would join Gerald with more than a suitcase filled with thongs and cocktail dresses.

How had everything spun so dangerously out of control? Her happiness at being with Gerald was tempered by the death of Elena. She blamed herself for that. Then there was Solomon charged with murder. That was partly her fault, too. Gorev's death. Okay, he was swine. Stealing the diamonds. That was spur of the moment.

She knew how to open Gorev's safe by watching him pay the girls. Foolish man used the postal code from his first strip club in Latvia as the combination to the safe. She would need a story to tell Gerald about the diamonds. Would he believe she inherited them from an old Russian aunt? Maybe. There was such a sweet air about him, like the aroma of freshly baked bread.

But now the dangers seemed to come at her from every direction. The murderous Alex Gorev after her. And the federal government. And Solomon's lawyers. And Benny. She had thought she could trust him. How foolish. A few days earlier, she had called Marina, one of the other B-girls. Marina said that Benny's men had slapped her around and demanded, "Where's Nadia, bitch?"

Why did this surprise me?

For God's sake, she had stolen Benny's diamonds. But even worse, Benny would know she could destroy him if the federal government found her. She had lied before, telling the government woman she knew nothing about smuggled diamonds. But she knew enough. She had seen enough. If she testified truthfully, she could send Benny away to prison for the rest of his miserable life.

The last few days, she had pushed these thoughts out of her mind, but now they came swirling back. Maybe she was living in a fairy-tale world like Dutch Wonderland. She did not know what to do. Should she tell Gerald everything? He was smart and honest.

But maybe too honest. He would probably want her to cooperate with the government. Return the diamonds. Testify. Not realizing the risks. She knew about the American witness protection program. Move away. New names, new identities. But Gerald could not move his factory. His life was here.

Most likely, the government would just deport her to Russia, where friends of the Gorev brothers would find and kill her.

I can see no way out.

Next to her in the bed, Gerald stirred. Blinked his eyes open. Smiled at her.

"Are you hungry, hon?" he said.

"If you are."

"The scrapple and venison sausage are first rate here."

Gerald gave her a peck on the lips and headed into the bathroom to shower. Nadia was just getting out of bed when her cell phone rang. A 305 number. Marina's.

"Allo," Nadia said.

"Ay, bubeleh!" Benny Cohen said. "Why you stay away so long?"

Nadia felt her throat tighten. She shot a look at the bathroom door. Closed, the shower running.

"Hello, Benny. Where's Marina?"

"She lent me her phone. Sweet girl."

"Did you hurt her?"

"Never! She handed the phone to Tony of her own free will . . . after he broke her wrist. I know where you are, bubeleh."

I never told Marina where I am, so how did he find out?

She went to the window, parted the curtains, and looked outside. She imagined Benny outside with his thugs in a rental car. But no. Nothing suspicious.

Benny coughed up a laugh and sang a little tune off-key: "It's better in the Ba-ha-mas."

Just like the television commercial. But what was he talking about?

"My plane's at the Nassau airport right now. Two of my men are there. You'll recognize them."

He thinks I'm in the Bahamas.

How could Benny get it so wrong? Welcome news. At least for now.

"Come to the airport," Benny said, "and save them the time of looking for you. They won't hurt you. They'll bring you home."