"That's a workable number."

"Yeah, but that's when we hit a brick wall. They all looked good, and they all had discounting factors. So we sent this list to the Behavioral Science Unit, and we asked them to have a profiler a.s.sess our suspects and determine our most likely candidates."

Sounded like a smart move to me, but Jennie mumbled, "Good luck."

The general looked a little surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, the BSU is up to its a.s.s in serial killers, serial arsonists, serial rapists, and, these days, serial snipers." She turned to Eric and asked, "Have you gotten a response yet?"

"No."

"And you probably won't. Ever," Jennie informed him. "The BSU gets perhaps ten thousand requests a year, from the rest of the FBI, from every local and city police department in the country, and, these days, from police forces around the world who've heard of the unit and its unique abilities. The unit's very small and notoriously overworked. Your case is too vague and too trivial to merit their attention. It's probably near the bottom of the slush pile."

Jennie then turned to me. She pointed at her watch and said, "We need to be going."

I nodded. Everybody nodded, apparently agreeing that we should be going.

General Tingle stood, and we both stood. The general remarked to us, "I warned you that it might be difficult to isolate a particular case."

Jennie shrugged. "Elimination is as important as discovery. We've at least ruled out three cases that aren't hopeful."

In that light, I said, "However, General, you and your people should keep searching. It's possible the FBI screen missed some likely cases, and it's also possible the case was never reported to the FBI in the first place."

Tingle positioned himself between us, took our arms, and began speeding us along to the door. He couldn't get rid of us fast enough. "In an hour this headquarters will be swarming with investigators. I'll send a worldwide alert to all CID stations to review all lost and stolen weapons cases. I'll call if we get anything."

Eric Tanner looked particularly relieved as we bid our adieus and went back outside and climbed into the MP humvee for the drive back to the helicopter. Jennie was quiet and moody Not a word was said during the ride.

Fortunately, Jimbo had somehow gotten his hands on a thermos of coffee and two mugs, and I suddenly saw him in a whole new light. You can run on adrenaline for only so long, after that it's all about caffeine.

The helicopter lifted off, and Jennie still said not a word. Eventually, she turned to me."Was it your impression we got anything useful out of that?"

"Probably not."

She exhaled deeply "I found that very . . . frustrating." After another moment she said, "That Tanner guy, he p.i.s.sed me off."

"I thought you two hit it off really well."

"I'm serious. He got under my skin."

"Fooled me."

"He was so full of himself. I can't remember seeing shoddier police work. CID people ... are they always that amateurish?"

"Now, that's unfair."

"Is it? If I brought a half-baked theory like that to my boss, I'd be fetching coffee and doughnuts for the bookkeepers."

"Goodnessdid we get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?"

"We never went to bed."

"Ah . . . that explains it."

"Would you get serious?" Apparently she was in a really foul mood, because she added, "I shouldn't have to remind you that every minute is precious. That was a complete waste of our time."

"Fine. That's what we'll report back."

"Fine." She stared out the window, and I stared out the other window.

I hadn't seen her like this, except at our first meeting, when the gun was really at her head. But as somebody wise and knowing once advised me, women speak two languages, one of which is verbal. Still, I thought I knew what was going on here. This wasn't about Eric Tanner, this was about George Meany. These two were playing for keeps. He had undermined her from day one, and now he was trying to deep-six her career, dropping dimes on her to Townsend, and who knew what else. Being her boss, George had lots of advantages he was not hesitating to use. Jennie's only chance was to bring home breakthroughs, not dead ends.

After a few minutes of silence, she grabbed my sleeve and pulled me toward her. She asked, "Am I being a b.i.t.c.h?"

Well, I do know when to keep my mouth shut.

She said, "I know I am." "Well. . . actually" "Sorry. Lack of sleep. Lack of breakfast." I did not reply to that either.

She said, "When we're done debriefing, let's get that hotel room."

And like that, the day was off to an interesting start.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

As we climbed off the helicopter and walked across the tarmac, we shook hands and agreed we would keep our debriefings short and be out in no time. In truth, I had felt fine until Jennie mentioned food and sleep, at which point Pavlov kicked in. My a.s.s was really dragging.

But by coincidence, Mort Silverman was puffing on a big stogie outside the entrance as we made our way into the building. Between his plump physique, rumpled suit, and oversize cigar, the guy looked like Danny DeVito in front of a bad movie set. In fact, I had yet to observe a single CIA person who bore an even pa.s.sing resemblance to James Bond. Most, like Mort or Phyllis, looked like somebody you'd run into in the produce section of the local Giant. Of course, it's not about how they look: It's about how they think. I introduced Mort to Jennie, and Jennie to Mort, and they exchanged a few pleasantries.

Incidentally, I noticed that Mort was standing on my left foot, which I interpreted as a subtle way of telling me not to go anywhere. Jennie had to check her phone messages, and eventually she departed, leaving us alone.

Mort drew a heavy puff from his cigar and asked, "Got a minute?"

"For you, Mort, two minutes."

"Two things. You want the good news first or last?"

"How about the kick in the a.s.s first."

He laughed. "Yeah, well. . . you know a guy named George?"

"Why? Has he been shot? Tell me it's so."

"You should wish. He called Phyllis while I was in there. Not for nothin', watch your a.s.s around him."

"And what was George's issue?"

"I couldn't hear much. But I caught enough to know he was p.i.s.sing all over you."

"Thanks. I owe you one."

"Yeah, you do. Now you're about to owe me two." He asked, "You know what Carnivore is?"

"Sort of like an Internet search service, right?"

"Like King Kong is sort of a monkey It belongs to the FBI, and NSA's got another version that works internationally. You cue it for. . . like, certain words and phrases, and it sweeps through the world's telephone and e-mail conversations. If one of these phrases pops up, say, in a conversation, it gets collected."

Perhaps recalling that I was a technological dimwit, Mort searched my face to be sure I understood before he continued. "Phyllis had Peterson order NSA to look for the phrase 'one hundred million bucks,' or variations thereof."

"Good thinking. They get anything?"

"A lot of hits, from banks, security houses, and the U.S. Congress." He paused a moment and sucked on his cigar. "But somebody's shoving a block of a hundred million bucks pretty quickly through a bunch of banks."

"Explain that."

"This basket of money's gone through ... like, six banks, just in the past twelve hours."

"Okay. Why would somebody do that?"

"You tell me."

I thought about it a moment. "Laundering?"

"Well, I called some sources over at Treasury. Good guys . . . they're into this money s.h.i.t, right? Not laundered . . . hidden."

"And there's a distinction?"

He laughed. "That's what I said. Sometimes tax dodgers, they shift their money around a lot. It creates a long chain, and tax authorities lose the thread."

"Okay."

"I said, so if you had to make an illegal payment of, like, a hundred million sometime in the near future, would you do that? They said that's exactly what you'd do. The money loses its ident.i.ty. Cycle it a few times through Swiss banks, the Caymans, a few little Pacific islandsplaces with liberal-to-no reporting procedurespretty soon, you wouldn't have a clue where the money originated."

"But would you know where it comes out?"

"If it stays in a single block. But if, at some point, they break it up, like into a bunch of five- or ten-million packets, and wire it sequentially, you could lose visibility of it."

I nodded, and he said, "If these guys are any good, they'll do just that."

"So what do we do about that?"

"Phyllis is on the phone right now with NSA and Treasury. They say, if they can catch it at just the right moment, NSA can put tracers on it, like a thousand little cookies. Then, no matter what the meatheads try, we'll know."

Interesting. Only one problem. "But"

"Yeah . . . you got it." Mort looked down at his shoes a moment. "We catch them after the President's already dead."

So anyway, Mort asked what I'd been up to. He'd been open and straight with me, so I was open and straight with him, and I told him about Margaret and Jason, and we both agreed that the Barneses were one screwy family It's all about reciprocation.

Phyllis was still chatting on the phone when I entered her office. I stood perfectly still in front of her desk for about thirty seconds. Unfortunately, patience is really not my strong suit. I began wandering around, pawing her pictures, pulling out her books and checking t.i.tles, playing with the few personal items on her desk. I hate it when people do that.

She eventually got the message, and she put a hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "Drummond, if you don't take your hands off my property, sit down, and behave, I'll boil you alive."

Goodness. I set down her teacup, sat at the conference table, and behaved perfectly, while loudly drumming my fingers and tapping my foot. Two out of three is really good for me.

Whoever Phyllis was chatting with apparently was bellyaching about how much trouble and expense it would be to follow, say, a hundred packets of wired money, if the bad guys chose to break it up. I mean, somebody just murdered three of our highest officials, they've threatened to a.s.sa.s.sinate the President, and this bureaucrat's worried about his overtime account. Typical. But Phyllis knew the drill and remained patient, though firm and insistent.

Eventually, she hung up and focused on me. "Well? Anything worthwhile turn up from our CID friends?"

"The one lead that looked good turned out not to be good."

"That happens. Still you have to go through the process. You know about?"

"I know. I ran into Mort."

"Fine. Now I'll update you on our other progress." And for the next two minutes she did. Apparently, the world had now been informed that Jason Barnes was the killer and the manhunt was in full froth. With its usual a.n.a.l efficiency, the Bureau had released and distributed not only Jason's official photograph but a sort of facsimile gallery of this-a.s.shole-could-look-like-this sketchesJason with a mustache, with gla.s.ses, a beard, bald, as a blond cross-dresser, whatever. The gallery would be printed on the front page of the Washington Post. This way, in the morning Jason would know what disguise not to wear.

The Bureau had to go through the paces, but sometimes the right thing to do is also the stupid thing to do. Not that I had a better suggestion. In fact, as Phyllis elaborated more of the steps and precautionssetting up checkpoints at strategic locations, screening Jason's charge card purchases to see where he liked to hang out, his phone records to see who he hung out with, etceterait struck me that hunting this guy down was going to be a b.i.t.c.h. I mean, there are people without Jason's brains, experience, and inside edges who spent ten years on the FBI's most wanted list. But Jason had lived in D.C. for three years, he knew the streets, he knew how to get around, and he knew what the police could do and what the police could not do.

Also, Jason's accomplices, in the parlance of the Bureau, remained UnSubs. Without the slightest tick of recognition, they could go out, retrieve groceries, scope out the checkpoints, and surveil the targets, while Jason hung around his hidey-hole and hatched his nefarious plans and plots. But enough unbridled optimism. Eventually, Phyllis wrapped it up by asking me, "Anything you can think of we should be doing but aren't?"

"Not a thing."

"Do you think he'll go after Mark Townsend?"

"I think, if he's half as good as he's been so far, he'll detect the security coverage and look elsewhere."

She nodded. "It's not a good posture, is it?"

"It's a terrible posture. Basically, we're waiting for him to make the next move, and praying he makes the kind of mistake he hasn't made yet."

"My read also." She added, "Let's hope his next move's not too awful."

"If you're the target," I noted, "it will be awful."

"Of course. Speaking of awful, you look terrible."

Well, I should. I was trying to look terrible. I had scruffed up my hair and I sank a little lower in my seat. I yawned. "Well. . . I'm fine, boss ... a little . . . tired . . . hungry . . . filthy . . . but"

"Go get cleaned up and take a nap, Drummond. You're no good to anybody if you can't think. Lord knows what might develop later today."

I stood. "I. . . if you insist."

She looked at me curiously. "I'm certainly not. . . insisting."