Ramsay couldn't say why he turned the Genie back for a single run past his apartment; but slowing to stare toward the lighted place, he saw the dark Firebird double-parked, one man dashing up the stairs. As Ramsay pa.s.sed, the man at the Firebird's wheel turned and saw him, then honked several quick blasts. The man on the stairs turned, something squarish and metallic showing through the opening of his coat, and then he was racing back as the Firebird's engine coughed a warning rumble. The driver was hammering on his steering wheel in frustration as he waited for his companion and Ramsay whacked the gear lever, reaching with two fingers for the boost switch on the lever's side. He wasn't sure the Genie's booster was working until his Pirellis began to smoke.

SIXTEEN.

He took the first right-hander he saw, thinking that the Genie's maneuverability might make up for a Firebird's monstrous rush up through its gears, and for his own lack of experience in life-or-death driving. With a ten-second head start, Ramsay hoped to make enough tight turns that sooner or later, the Firebird's driver would begin to lose more precious seconds wondering which way he had turned.

But Ramsay soon found himself overmatched. Instead of beginning each turn at the intersection, as he did, the big muscle car was starting its turns efficiently, very early and very wide, ticking the edges of curbs, booming down suburban streets with a surge of sound that Ramsay could hear above the wail of his own smaller engine. And when he divided his attention between the streets ahead and the onrushing Pontiac behind, he managed to misjudge his own path. The big car loomed only five seconds behind when Ramsay, driving beyond his capacity to react to what appeared in his headlights, saw the extreme dip at one intersection too late to avoid it.

He braked in panic when he should have accelerated, the Genie's nose diving, rebounding with a mighty thump of bottomed suspension, starting a sidelong slide. He released the brake, judging that if he was very, very lucky, the Genie might make it between a fence and a brick wall into someone's driveway? which meant that, lucky or not, he would be afoot within seconds.

Except that it was not a driveway at all. He had turned in at an alley, a piece of Americana left over from times when trash collectors drove behind a house, not past its front. Ramsay nudged the edge of the fence with his left front fender as he powered past it, still badly overdriving his lights. He saw a streetlamp's glow a hundred yards ahead, then squinted into his rearview at the twin beams that caught him as the Firebird entered the same alleyway. But the Firebird, still jouncing from that dip in the intersection, had too much weight to recover its poise in such a short distance. It missed the fence but evidently not the brick wall, and then Ramsay caught a glimpse of orange sparks showering an outline of the big car, still pursuing but now with only one headlight.

Someone had left a huge pile of tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs? leaves, gra.s.s and small branches? against a back fence on the right side, and Ramsay slowed just enough to steer to the left of the mess, brambles screeching down the left side of the Genie as he slammed his foot on the accelerator again. His right wheels, whirling through the edge of the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, bounced hard and then he was past them, risking another look back. The drum and wail of his Genie were too loud now for him to hear anything else, but he saw winks of light stutter from the Firebird as if signaling.

Signal, my fat a.s.s, he's shooting, Ramsay thought as his outside rearview mirror exploded three feet from his face. Then the Firebird driver elected to force his way straight through the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Ramsay had never seen a car stop so fast in his life.

Below all the gra.s.s and leaves lay cordwood, piled in no particular order, flying forward into the Firebird's single headlight beam as the car became a bludgeon. Ramsay did not realize until he was turning left onto the paved street that the Firebird was rocking backward, then forward, as lights began to wink on in bedrooms that flanked the alley.Ramsay took a right, then another right, then a third, simply because it seemed the last thing his pursuers would expect. As he flashed back past the street where he had exited the alley, he spotted the Firebird lit by a streetlight, turning left as he had done, its entire right side a ruin, dragging its rear b.u.mper. Before he pa.s.sed from sight, he saw the big car's nose dip under heavy braking and a.s.sumed he'd been seen. He took the next right-hand alleyway he found and got a two-second view of a weedy track that was clear as far as the next street. He shut off his lights and continued much more slowly, letting his eyes get accustomed to the light of stars and half a moon, snarling, Yeahhh, with a raised fist when the Firebird hurtled up the street, crossing behind him, the bellow of its engine rising as it kept accelerating. Somewhere in the distance, sirens hooted.

He proceeded down the alley for two more blocks, using his lights only for brief flashes, and turned right onto a paved street after making certain that no headlights were approaching from any direction. After a few blocks, he turned his lights on and headed for Route 1 and the District of Columbia.

He parked as inconspicuously as possible behind a Seven-Eleven, still trembling, and wondered if his panic flight had condemned Laurie to death. He tried to tell himself that they would keep her as a bargaining chip as long as he maintained his silence, but he remained unconvinced as he entered the phone kiosk and consulted his memocomp. Ten seconds later he began to whistle a single tone into the mouthpiece, a tone as shaky as he was.

He tried another tone less wavering, and when someone lifted the receiver he said, You called me Mr. C., and you offered me a place to hide. Well, I need it. I'm in trouble.

Someone told him to wait. He waited a h.e.l.l of a long time, it seemed, before he heard the sleep-fogged voice of Tom Cusick. Understand you need a safe place. What happened?

Ramsay told him. Maybe I should've stayed, he added, for my daughter's sake.

You did right, said Cusick. Something forced them to change plans; something major, I think. We'll work on it. Right now, let's get you picked up. And your rolling toy that anybody can spot a mile off, we'll need to hide that. Um; you know where we met? You arrange a breakdown on the street outside. Can you get there in thirty minutes?

h.e.l.l, I can do better than? Ramsay began. He was only ten minutes from the Smithsonian.

Just yes or no, and I make that yes. Try not to get there ahead of time. Suddenly Ramsay was monitoring a dead line.

He bought a cup of coffee in the Seven-Eleven and browsed among magazines as he sipped. Then he drove the Genie toward Jefferson Drive, taking it slowly, pulling to the curb near the ma.s.sive Air and s.p.a.ce Museum with three minutes to spare. A tow truck pulled up behind him two minutes later, three men shuffling from the big vehicle. One of them was Cusick, who pointed at the elevated cab and told Ramsay to stay in it. One minute later they had a huge opaque tarp bundled around the Genie; in two more, the Genie's front end swung gently from a cable sling and the truck was underway again.Ramsay finished his account as they drove across the Anacostia River into Fairmont Heights, Tom Cusick asking a few questions in the interim. Neither of the other men broke their silence until Ramsay asked, Why do we need my car, if it's such a giveaway?

That's why, rumbled the driver, bait, if they really want you.

He can park it at the NBN studios, Cusick said.

But not too near the building, just in case, the third man said. And what if they're waiting?

We'll run interference with this rig until Ramsay's inside the building, Cusick replied. But right now, I could use a few hours' sleep.

G.o.d, I'm too wired for that, said Ramsay, but he was wrong. Minutes after they parked the tow truck and filed into the boarded-up service station off East Capitol Street, Alan Ramsay was snoring l.u.s.tily on an air mattress.

Ramsay was up by seven and tooling the Genie toward NBN by eight, in the shadow of a big tow truck that just happened to turn in abreast of him and loomed so near that parking was difficult. He hurried upstairs and absorbed the impact of a different and more familiar reality, as if the outside world were only a hallucination. He sifted through a stack of callback requests, including one from Lieutenant Corwin that only said, 'We have your girl,' and he wondered why Pam Garza had gone to the cops until he was arguing about a feature with Irv, and then he made the connection that had been too good to imagine the first time around, and he leaped for Irv's phone so abruptly that the producer ducked.

He talked his way past two people before Corwin came on-line. Corwin, this is Alan Ramsay. Which girl do you mean?

Gruffly, but pleased: How many kids do you have, Ramsay? Laurie, of course. At Ramsay's whoop, which drove the harried producer from his own office, Corwin went on, She called your place and talked to your lady friend, who told her to take a taxi direct to me, and not to budge out of the cop shop without me. She showed up in the middle of the night at Fourth District HQ in a taxi, f'G.o.d's sake, with somebody's money and somebody's purse and somebody's gun, and it seems she's whacked out some troll who needed whacking the worst way, but it still sounds very much like homicide to me, but not in my district, thank you very much, and? are you getting this, Ramsay?

Where the h.e.l.l is my daughter right now, Ramsay asked, too stunned by this goofy recital to fully believe it all.

With me, actually. She tells me you play tricks with coffee makers, is that true? Ramsay?

h.e.l.lo?

But Ramsay was already running for the exit.

The utility van bore a legend on its side, now, with peel-off block lettering: 'REVIVACAR,' and in smaller letters, '24 hr. service.' The man in white overalls hadopened the hood of the Plymouth next to the yellow Genie, and jumper cables coiled on the macadam nearby. Had the Plymouth's owner showed up, it would have been simple for Bobby Lathrop to claim he'd made an honest mistake.

Twice, Bobby stiffened, ducking his head into the Plymouth's innards as mall patrons walked past, but no one seemed curious about his work.

The second man was harder to spot because only his feet protruded from beneath the nose of the Genie. His explanation might have been more creative. Harman worked silently under the Genie while Bobby kept a nervous watch, and when he was finished he slid out with very special care. Switched on, he said, scrambling into the van.

Bobby lowered the Plymouth's hood, retrieved the jumper cables, and hummed an old tune as he drove away. The tune was Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.

A hundred yards distant, a tow truck driver picked up his all-band unit. You have your rabbit, Athos?

Hippity-hop, Porthos. By the way, I made one of those scufflers, knew him from the old days. He's got my leash on him but it won't activate for an hour. I'll give him lots of room. Aramis, proceed south on New Hampshire. And be careful, Porthos, you wouldn't want to make a report to the nation.

Didn't know you cared. Porthos out. Tom Cusick put the comm set down, sighed, and drove the tow truck behind the Genie, taking a small toolkit and an astonishingly heavy blanket as he stepped down from the cab. If worst came to worst, the truck would intercept most of the debris and working from the Kevlar blanket, he might lose only his arms.

SEVENTEEN.

Alan Ramsay laughed with tears running down his cheeks, holding Laurie to him, inhaling her scent as she hugged him back. Boy, could you ever use a bath, he said.

She wouldn't let me. Oh, Dad, is it true about Mom?

Some jacka.s.s told her, Ramsay; sorry, said Corwin, who stood by.

'Fraid so, pudd'n, Ramsay nodded, and held Laurie again as she broke out in fresh sobs.

I miss her too. We'll get 'em, wait and see.

Montgomery County mounties found the house an hour ago, Corwin put in. Laurie gotone of 'em herself, Christ knows how.

I told you how, Laurie sniffled. I'm not sorry.

I don't suppose you'd be averse to making a statement, now that it's over, Corwin said to Ramsay.

Fine, when it's over, Ramsay said, but it isn't over.

I could keep you here, Corwin said. It did not sound much like a threat.

Ramsay lowered his daughter to the floor, one arm still draped protectively around her shoulders. At first I didn't know where you stood; I mean the police. You? look, can I talk to you where n.o.body will tape us? Privileged conversation?

Right. Not legally privileged, I can't give you that. But I can use my judgment. Come with me, he said, turning. Ramsay took Laurie along. It wasn't so much that he wanted her to hear it; merely that he did not want to let her out of his sight.

. . . Supposed to stay in the studios, Ramsay, said Tom Cusick, calling shortly before noon. When the receptionist told me to call some police lieutenant I thought someone had nailed you. Why are you? ?

My daughter escaped last night, Ramsay interrupted. She wound up with the police and I came straight here by taxi. Maybe that's why Kalvin's people were changing plans.

Anybody who calls me at NBN gets referred to this number.

A sigh of relief from Cusick. That's the break we needed. You really have the girl there with you?

Sleeping like a lamb; she had a busy night, said Ramsay.

Then maybe we can step up the pace. I suppose the police are tracing this call, and I'd rather keep a low profile.

Ramsay glanced across at Corwin, who was using an extension. Corwin, smiling, shook his head. Lieutenant Corwin is on the extension; he says not. Anyway, why would you care?

Because I've broken some laws by not waiting for the so-called proper authorities.

Disarmed a half-pound of plastique under your car cha.s.sis two hours ago. Mercury switch, so it'd detonate when you backed out or hit a b.u.mp.

Lieutenant Corwin here, Corwin broke in. Have you notified the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms people?

No, I just took the detonator out of the circuit and left the d.a.m.ned thing where it was, on the front suspension crossmember. You might get some good prints off the device; but not mine. And two friends of mine are smooth-tailing the guy who seems to be running this piece of the operation.

All we need is a bunch of amateurs, Corwin began.Professionals. Retired, but not all that retired, Cusick said dryly. You want to take it over?

There are some things they can't take over, Ramsay put in. But I have a contact who could start from the other end. At the top.

That's dangerous, said Cusick. Kalvin's thugs are almost certainly some part of the intelligence community.

We're wasting time, said Corwin. I have enough facts to start on, but a set of prints on a car bomb would make all this business more credible. And I'd feel better if you let us take up the surveillance you're running. In fact I'm going to have to insist.

Then you'll want a make on a van license plate, and I've got the number of a certain motel room that'll bear watching, Cusick replied. Got a pencil and pad handy?

We're professionals too, said Corwin. Shoot.

By late afternoon, Bobby Lathrop began to feel tendrils of p.r.i.c.kly heat on the nape of his neck. He'd tried several times to raise Pam Garza at her apartment and at work; had even tried Ramsay's number without success. With twenty-twenty hindsight, he knew he should've grabbed her the night before instead of howling off in that futile effort to nail Ramsay. Harman, who knew better than to go within two hundred yards of the Genie, had posted himself in the mall where he would hear the explosion. He had called twice to say the Genie was still intact, un.o.bliterated. They had to presume Ramsay was still at work, maybe on a remote job, but sooner or later he'd come back for his toy. Bobby didn't want to call Unruh yet, but he knew that Unruh, at home on medical leave or some such, would be furious if that call didn't come. Bobby knew he should go to a pay phone to call, but then he might miss a call from Harman. He did it the easy way, with his scrambler, from the room.

Scrambler or no scrambler, Unruh didn't sound so hot. No, of course he hasn't called here; he'd d.a.m.ned well better not, without a scrambler. Have you got the girl?

Which girl, Terence?

Any girl! Or Ramsay. Or any leads on any of them.

Bobby tried to explain, but sometimes there was no explaining failure. He a.s.sured Unruh that Ramsay would be accounted for almost any moment now, and that the Garza woman couldn't just disappear. He said he didn't know whether there was any fresh action at Jondahl's place.

I called in a favor, Unruh replied, deliberately vague. Sheriff's people have an open homicide there, forensics people borrowed from Gaithersburg. The place is blown, forget it. Unless you left prints there, he added ominously.

Now you know I wouldn't be that dumb. And the Firebird's stored, beat to s.h.i.t; we're using the van and a rented 'Vette. Listen, you have to figure that little kid is finding her way home. I could surveil her apartment, maybe pick her up if she didn't go to the nearest police cruiser. Unless you could put someone else on it, he added hopefully. Andwhat do I do with Garza, if I find her?

Hold incommunicado, either or both of them. I'll see if I can borrow some a.s.sets to find Garza; you can try the Ramsay woman's apartment for the little girl, it's already got new tenants, but watch yourself. Somebody else could be around, G.o.d knows who. And Bobby: call me again the instant you have the news on Ramsay.

Bobby replaced the receiver thoughtfully, wondering if he was ever going to have good news on Ramsay.

Seventy yards away, in the closet-like telephone service module of the motel, a slender technician pressed a b.u.t.ton, then another, then tapped out an instruction. His companion, older and burly, had given up on optimism years ago. Too quick for you, he suggested to the young police tech.

Nope. It was all scrambled mush, but whoever's on the other end has very high-tech stuff. And he responded from the rez of one, he consulted the readout, Terence Unruh.

Ever hear of him?

Naw. But I figure we're going to, said the burly one, after I call this in to Corwin.

... And they're here, said the President's secretary, and the phrase is Code Blue. General Magnuson said you'd understand. He seems very, ah, intent, Mr. President.

Harrison Rand leaned forward, flogging his memory. Codes yellow and red dealt with external threats; Code Blue had something to do with clear and present internal danger.

Well, I suppose it can't be helped. You'd better ring Walt, he's only across the street.

For your ears only, sir. That's what they said, sir.

Rand sighed, threw up his hands, and handed a bundle of unsigned doc.u.ments to his aide. Give me one minute, and show them in, he said to the intercom. To the aide and the two men who stood near the big desk he said, I'm afraid it'll have to wait, boys. Use that door, he added with a sweep of his hand. He stood up, pushing his gla.s.ses away from his nose as he dry-washed his face, wondering what in the name of the Lord G.o.d Almighty was so important that the Army's Magnuson had to bring Major General McMa.n.u.s of the Defense Intelligence Agency along for backup.

Magnuson entered with due respect, a rawboned gray eminence with piercing eyes, also gray; McMa.n.u.s stayed half a pace behind, shorter, not so gray but just as grim. They met the Presidential handclasp firmly, the DIA's McMa.n.u.s glancing around with something more than idle curiosity. Now what's all this about Code Blue, Rand asked, smiling.