"Did you run in the Olympics?"

"I wasn't that fast. But one of my teammates did."

"Black girl?"

"Yes."

Pajamae nodded. "We dominate track and field ... and basketball ... football ... tennis with Serena ... golf with Tiger but not so much lately ... soccer and baseball belong to the Latin American players."

"I take it you love sports?"

"I do. I want to be a professional basketball player."

"Well, work hard, maximize your talent, and see where you end up. But always have a plan B."

"What was your plan B?"

"The FBI."

"Do you have a badge?"

"Yes, I do."

"May we see it?"

"You may."

Cat pulled her badge out of the waist pack and handed it to Pajamae. She and Boo studied it then handed it back.

"Do you have a gun?"

"Yes, I do."

"May we see it?"

"No. We only take our guns out when absolutely necessary to subdue a bad guy."

"Have you ever shot a bad guy?"

"Uh, Pajamae," Scott said. "That might be-"

"Yes, I have."

"Did you kill him?"

"No. I shot him in the leg."

"Because you missed where you were aiming?"

"Because I hit where I was aiming."

"Did you arrest him?"

"Yes."

"What did he do bad?"

"He robbed banks."

"No, shit?" Boo said.

"Boo," Scott said.

"I mean, no kidding?"

"No kidding. He had robbed fifteen banks. We caught him coming out the sixteenth. He shot at us, we shot back. He was a good bank robber, but a bad shooter."

"What happened to him?" Pajamae asked.

"He's in prison."

"My daddy went to prison. Not Judge Fenney, but my biological dad. His name was Eddie."

"What did he do?"

"Drugs. Dealing. Got my mama hooked on heroin. He was a white boy."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead."

"The president wants the Arabs dead before kickoff!"

The president had yelled at the director, so the director now yelled at Beckeman. As if that would further the search for the Arabs.

"I've got to find them before I can kill them. These guys are ghosts."

"What do you need?"

"I need wiretaps, sneak and peeks, NSA email and phone surveillance-I need it all."

You've got anything you need."

"I need to waterboard Mustafa."

"Except torture."

"He knows the Arabs. Who they are and where they are."

"How do you know?"

"Do you know me? Do you know where to find me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"You work for me."

"Exactly. They work for him. Give me thirty minutes alone with him, he'll talk. He's not a soldier, he's a fucking PhD. A professor. He'll talk."

"The president has a strict policy against torture."

"And I have eight days to find the Arabs."

"Do you have any tattoos?" Boo asked the FBI agent named Cat.

"No."

"Are you thinking about getting one?"

"No."

"I love tattoos but I'm scared of needles."

"Good."

They had walked into Whole Foods. Pajamae tore Consuelo's list in half. The girls went one way with a basket, Cat and Scott the other way with another basket. Cat glanced back at the girls.

"You think they're safe? Maybe we should shop together."

"It's Whole Foods. They're safe as long as they stay away from the cupcakes."

The White House sat only six blocks up Pennsylvania Avenue from the J. Edgar Hoover Building. The FBI headquarters was named in honor of a closet gay paranoid whack job who scared the hell out of every president for forty years. Well, maybe not LBJ. He was an even bigger whack job. But not gay. Director Paulson stood in the Oval Office fifteen minutes after hanging up with Beckeman.

"Sir, we haven't had a major attack on the homeland since nine-eleven. We can't have one on your watch. Not if you want this job for another four years."

The president stared out the window at the Rose Garden. These were the make-or-break decisions presidents had to make. If Mustafa talked and the Arabs were captured or killed before the Super Bowl, the president would be a hero. If Mustafa didn't talk and word got out that he was tortured-and word would get out-the president would go back home after the election. The president turned back to the director.

"No."

"Mr. President, you're trying to be a good man fighting evil."

"You want me to fight evil with evil?"

"I want you to keep those people at the Super Bowl alive."

"Will this prevent a heart attack?"

Boo stood in the Whole Life department. She knew it well. This department was where she kept A. Scott healthy. She held the container up to the clerk.

"Heart attack? Guar gum with psyllium? No, I don't think so. But it'll prevent constipation."

"That's what Elvis died from."

"Heart attack?"

"Constipation."

Scott pushed the basket past the Whole Life department; he spotted Boo talking to a clerk.

"Let's see what Boo found," Cat said.

"No. You'll only encourage her."

"I take lots of supplements."

She ignored his advice and walked over to Boo. Scott followed. Reluctantly. It was like feeding a stray cat.

"What'd you find, Boo?" Cat asked.

"Guar gum with psyllium."

"I take that."

"You do?"

"Yep. Fiber. Prevents constipation. Elvis died of that."

"I know!"

She tossed the bottle into the basket. Scott retrieved the bottle, put his glasses on, and checked the price.

"It's twenty-five dollars, Boo."

"Do you want to die from constipation?"

Boo and Cat stared at him waiting for an answer.