If Merriman Foxx had testified for three days as Peter Fadden had said, he would be more than aware of who Congresswoman Baker was. Marten's plan was to call his residence, give his name as Nicholas Marten, a special aide to Representative Baker, and say there were three or four minor ambiguities in the hearing's transcript that the congresswoman would like clarified. Since he was in Europe and would be traveling through Malta anyway, the congresswoman would very much appreciate it if Dr. Foxx would give him a few moments so that the text could be finalized for the Congressional Record.

It was a kind of boldness Marten knew was risky. There was every chance that he would get a firm "No, I'm sorry but my testimony has been completed" or that Foxx might first check with Baker's office in Washington to see if there was indeed a Nicholas Marten on her staff and if he had been given such an assignment. But as a former investigator, Marten was going on the belief that the scientist's reaction would be cordial. Cordial, as in guarded, as if he might still be under the committee's scrutiny. Or cordial, as in friendly, if some kind of cooperative venture was going on between himself and the committee and he didn't want to upset it. In either case, cordial enough to at least meet with him face-to-face. And when they met, Marten would begin to "cordially" feel him out for what he knew about Dr. Stephenson and about the illness and death of Caroline Parsons.

Marten walked toward St. John's Square, where Republic Street and St. John Street crossed. He passed a small games and toys shop, another selling wine and spirits, and then under a colorful banner stretching overhead across Republic Street. A few paces more and he was at St. John's Square and in front of the massive Church of the Knights, the seventeenth-century Co-Cathedral of St. John. He had heard of its grand noble hall and the magnificent design within, but from the outside it looked more like a fortress than a church, and reminded him once more that Malta, especially Valletta, had been designed foremost as a citadel.

St. John Street was hardly a street but rather a long climb of stone steps. No vehicles here, only pedestrians. It was now a little after five in the afternoon and the sun cut deep shadows across the stairs as he climbed them. His reason for coming here was simple; to find number 200 and hopefully get some sense of how Merriman Foxx lived-a glimpse of him would be a sheer bonus-before he returned to his hotel and telephoned him.

One hundred fifty-two steps later he was there. Number 200 was similar to all of the buildings on the street, a four-story edifice with an enclosed overhanging balcony on each floor. Balconies that he was certain gave a clear view of the street below.

Marten walked up another twenty steps, then turned back to study the building. Without going up to the front door and peering in, it was hard to tell if the four floors were part of one residence or were broken into single apartments on each floor. A lone residence might indicate Foxx was a man of some wealth-an investment of part of his alleged siphoned-off millions, maybe. An apartment on a single floor would be less definitive. The one thing that was certain was that anyone who lived here had to be at the very least ambulatory; the steep stone-step street itself proved that. It made him begin to wonder if, as a former military officer, Merriman Foxx may well have chosen this island domicile not only for its rich military history but because as he aged it would force him to stay in shape physically. It was a personal discipline he should not overlook when they met face-to-face and he began to question Foxx about Dr. Stephenson and Caroline Parsons.

On the other hand maybe he was jumping the gun by assuming Foxx was both the "doctor" and the "white-haired man." What if he wasn't? What if he was just a former army commander with white hair who had run a secret South African bioweapons program and then retired after the whole thing was dismantled? Someone who had never heard of Caroline Parsons or Lorraine Stephenson, had told the truth before a congressional committee, and was now back home to whatever his life in Malta was and happy to have everything else behind him?

What then?

Go back to England? Go back and go to work putting the finishing touches on the landscape drawings for the Banfield country estate northwest of Manchester? Get everything ready for the grading, the irrigation people, the nursery orders, and the planting crews? Go back and forget about what had happened to Caroline? Or to her husband and son? Or about the decapitation of the already dead Dr. Lorraine Stephenson?

No, he'd forget none of it because it wouldn't come to that. Merriman Foxx had to be the doctor/white-haired man. He'd been in Washington from March 6th to the 29th, the period during which Mike Parsons and his son had died in the plane crash and when Caroline had become ill. He'd been the principal witness for the subcommittee Mike Parsons had been a member of. And he knew firsthand about the makeup and covert use of secret deadly pathogens.

There was little doubt Foxx was the man he was after, but even if he was fortunate enough to get the face-to-face meeting with him why would Foxx tell him anything at all about what he was involved in? If Marten persisted and it got ugly Foxx might very well find a way to kill him. Conversely, if what Foxx was engaged in was far-reaching enough and somehow he forced him into a corner, it might be cause enough for Foxx to kill himself. A cyanide tablet under the tongue, or considering his professional background, something more ingenious, prepared long in advance in the event of such a circumstance.

Peter Fadden had told Marten he was pursuing this emotionally, and he was right. It was why he was here. But now, in the shadow of Foxx's apartment building, he realized that what he had been thinking was true and that if he continued on that same path there was every chance either he or the good doctor would wind up dead, and in the process send Foxx's entire operation, whatever it was, underground. Furthermore, and what he should have thought about from the beginning, was that no matter what he uncovered he had no support structure to back him up. Even if he got Foxx to divulge everything, who was he going to turn to?

If this was as potentially explosive as it seemed-the murder of a United States congressman and his son, and later his wife, followed by the decapitation of his wife's doctor, all intertwined with a congressional subcommittee hearing on intelligence and counterterrorism-it was not something an expatriate landscape designer from England should be pursuing alone. That he had once been an LAPD homicide detective meant nothing; this was a national security issue, especially if it involved congressional-level Washington politics. So far he had no proof of anything. But a trail had opened up and Merriman Foxx was at the end of it. It meant that whatever Marten did and said when he met him had to be done with great care and self-control, and with all his personal feelings left out of it. His objective had to be wholly singular: to ascertain if Merriman Foxx was-or was not-the doctor/white-haired man. If he was, his next step would be to get hold of Peter Fadden and let him turn loose the one organization in Washington that would have no qualms about taking the investigation further-The Washington Post.

• MADRID, WESTIN PALACE HOTEL, 7:30 P.M.

"Hello, Victor." Richard's telephone voice was calm and soothing as always.

"I'm glad to hear from you, Richard. I thought you were going to call me earlier." Victor picked up the remote and turned down the television, then moved to sit on the edge of the bed, where he had been resting until his cell phone had rung with Richard's call.