Tommy's rapid strides carried him back to the Lincoln Memorial, where he sat on the steps in silence before pulling out Philly's tablet and shooting off a quick note to Sam and Philly regarding the details of his meeting with Maxine. It wasn't much, but they now had a place to start looking. Hollirich Industries was an enormous global presence and one of the largest defense contractors in the nation. Tommy had every intention of scrutinizing the corporation's every nook and cranny.

He purchased a soda from a cart and, without thinking, began making his way back toward Union Station. A small, upscale coffee shop called Pooky's that he'd seen near the station would be an ideal place to bide his time until his train.

Again, the walk was pleasant, and after a time Tommy clicked a few more photos for Rhonda.

We should come here on vacation, sometime.

Despite his fury at recent events, Tommy still held the notion of representative democracy in high esteem, and he greatly admired the entire venture of America. The fact he might be walking within spitting distance of those who planned and ordered the abduction of his friend tempered his admiration not in the least, and a small knot formed in his throat as he walked the length of the Mall, admiring the buildings and monuments.

Not everything needs to be perfect for it to be good. Amy had taught him that.

The Smithsonian was like a magnet drawing him in, but he avoided the temptation to stop and play tourist more than he already had. That would have to be for another time. This past week, he'd felt guilty every minute that he hadn't been looking for Amy, even those times he'd spent with Rhonda.

As he arrived at the Museum of Natural history, intending to cut over to Constitution Avenue, he took a shortcut through the parking lot to avoid some work along the sidewalk. Glancing at two identical sedans parked side-by-side, something caught his eye, and he froze.

His presence already had captured the attention of the parking lot attendant, whose station was just a few dozen steps away. Tommy sniffed the air to determine the gender of the small, round, and slightly mustachioed attendant. It was a woman of about 50 years.

"Excuse me, miss. What kind of tag is that?" he asked, pointing to the license plate of one of the sedans.

The woman emerged from her small station puffing on a long, thin cheroot and, at first, seemed confused at what Tommy had asked.

"Well, that's a GSA vehicle, honey," the woman said finally in a gravelly, androgynous voice. She continued, as if explaining to a child, "Them's government vehicles, administered by the General Services Administration. They look after the government's property."

A small "GSA" logo was clearly visible in the bottom left of the plates of the two vehicles. Following enquiries from Tommy, the woman patiently explained what the other letters and numbers on the license plate meant, in a way that indicated this was common knowledge to anyone working in the Capitol region.

Tommy finally thanked the woman and turned to leave.

"You come by any time, baby," replied the woman as she swayed back to her booth. Her friendly and charitable tone showed that fielding the questions of idiots was all a part of her daily routine.

Tommy nearly had come out of his skin at this discovery. How simple and obvious. The numbers he'd found in Amy's papers were tag numbers of government vehicles. Why had she written them? Were they following her? Was she following them? If she thought she was in trouble, why hadn't she contacted Sam or Tommy?

That last question he'd left unasked for the previous few days, but it had been calling out to him from the recesses of his mind.

Placing a rein on his excitement took several minutes. He avoided the temptation to call Sam and Philly immediately, and decided to wait until he was at his destination.

Fifteen minutes later, he was sucking on an eight-dollar cup of mediocre Pooky's coffee and speaking with his two friends on Philly's tablet. He had taken care to scan the entire room, but placed his earbuds in for added anonymity. He now went about with all his senses on, all the time, and was certain that he wasn't being surveilled or followed—he wished that he were.

Sam spoke first, informing his two friends about what they had found in Rollo. His major concern was whether he and Camille should have attempted to make official contact with the credit-card thief's commander. After a brief discussion, they all agreed with Camille that it was worthwhile. News of their enquiries would make it to the ears of their enemies sooner or later. They couldn't tiptoe around forever.

Tommy's news was welcome by all. Philly would begin a search for the GSA numbers in question. "If they really are government license plate numbers, I know someone who can track them," she said.

Tommy opted not to ask what she meant by "track."

"I wouldn't be surprised if our man Staff Sergeant Kissinger and those government vehicles all lead us back to the same place," said Sam.

Throughout the call, it was obvious that Sam was distressed. Tommy remembered the bracelet Sam had given Amy. The man usually wasn't the openly sentimental type, and the inexpensive gift had been something of a joke for him at the time. But Amy wore it everywhere. Sam thought that funny at first, but later, as years passed, had been moved deeply by the fact that the trinket had remained part of her daily wardrobe. Their friend had her little ways of getting under your skin.

Tommy realized Camille was talking on the other end.

"This could be our best opportunity," she said.

Tommy couldn't help but notice this was the first time he'd heard the officer say "our" in reference to their venture.

"Look," the detective continued, "we track bad guys by phone records, bank accounts, toll-booth records, you name it. It's the little things that trip people up. I can't help but think soldiers and government contractors have one thing in common. They all have to document their expenses. Maybe that should be our next step. This Kissinger asshole must have a government credit card or access to a money machine. No soldier alive can go five or six months without a candy bar or soda. They all need money, and they all have to travel and sleep somewhere." Camille hesitated. "I can't get any of that without a court order."

Philly perked up on the other end. "Perfect. Detective, you might want to cover your ears, but I can take care of that."

Tommy laughed. No wonder Philly was being so circumspect. The danger of having a sworn officer on the team became obvious. He laughed even louder.

"I'll have the lawyers take a hard look at Hollirich," he said, still chuckling. "I mean really put them under the microscope ... all clean and legal, of course. Philly, have you had a chance to look into Amy's other phone?"

"Shit," she said. "I put it on the back burner and forgot about it."

"Don't worry, hon," Sam interjected. "It's only been a couple of days."

"I know, I know, I know." The video showed that she again was pacing about her office. "It's important, though."

"Philly, hire as many people as you need."

"I will, I will," she replied. "This won't happen again."

She seemed harried, but Tommy had met her kind before, people who thrived on high-pressure situations. The only real danger was of her working herself to death. If their search became a long one, either he or Sam would need to visit San Francisco from time to time, just to calm her down.

"We all have things to do right now," Tommy said. "Let's get to work and meet again later this evening and compare notes."

All agreed and signed off.

***

Tommy sat afterward and thought. He was smarter than average and had an unworldly memory, but he'd grown up in a simpler time, with fewer moving parts. If he didn't pause and reflect from time to time, there was a danger of his being overwhelmed. Making a mental list was one of his tricks. Right now, it was very short.

1. Call the lawyers.

2. Look into Hollirich.

3. Arrange a buyer for the diamonds.

Most of the other important tasks were being done by his friends. But what could he be doing? Rather, what should he be doing?

He ruled out direct action for the time being. He could fly to Fort Leonard Wood tonight and throttle Kissinger's commander until the man gave up the sergeant's location. He knew Sam well enough to realize that he was thinking the same thing. But he also knew Sam would resist the temptation. Both he and his friend were unusually law-abiding citizens.

But how long can I afford to fight with one hand tied behind my back?

No. He couldn't think that way, not yet. Tommy wasn't a pacifist. He would hurt or kill if he had to, without hesitation. But if he beat the hell out of one army officer? Well, why not just start with the chairman of the board at Hollirich, or the president of the United States, and work his way down?

Besides, given the way in which covert operations worked, there was no guarantee the commander even had the information they were seeking, and even if he did, the man would be on his guard against casual elicitation.

Other options were weak for the same reason. Surveillance and human source operations—espionage, to call it what it was—usually took time and careful planning. They might get lucky at Fort Leonard Wood, but they also might waste weeks or months at the place and come up empty handed.

Espionage also needed a target, a fairly narrow target. Here, so far, they were still punching at shadows. They knew the army was in some way involved with whatever scheme was afoot. Tommy, a veteran of many American wars, hated the sound of that. Maxine had more or less told him that one of the biggest defense contractors in the country was involved. But both were enormous organizations. Where to start? How to narrow it down?

Right now, they had the names of three army medics, but they had only a few guesses about how those men might be found.

"Crap." Let's try and narrow things down.