The one thing he had known from the start was that when the Secret Service realized he was gone not only would a massive and very clandestine manhunt have begun in the search for him, but they would also have gone over every inch of the presidential suite trying to put together what had happened. Among those they would call in would be his valet, who would have done an immediate inventory of his clothing and determined that he had worn a black sweater, blue jeans, and running shoes when he left. Those clothes were now in a trash can in a back alley of Madrid's old town and had been replaced by a pair of khaki pants, a blue sport shirt, an inexpensive brown jacket, and brown walking shoes. All paid for with cash and purchased at an El Corte d'Inglés department store. Added to that was the pair of cheap reading glasses bought at a shop near the railway station, and the thing he was certain was helping most of all-he had removed his hairpiece. Hap Daniels and everyone else would be looking for POTUS as they knew him, not the balding, eyeglass-wearing, Spanish-speaking public school administrator or minor civil servant he appeared to be, one carrying a Spanish language newspaper and riding tourist class on the train to Barcelona.

• BARCELONA, HOTEL REGENTE MAJESTIC, 2:25 P.M.

Do you know if Ms. Picard has arrived?" Nicholas Marten smiled at the attractive female clerk at the front desk. "My name is Marten. I'm with The Washington Post. We were told to check in here for room assignments."

"I'm sorry," she smiled. "I don't understand."

"We're in Barcelona for the Newspaper Writers and Photographers conference. Her name is Picard. P-I-C-A-R-D. First name, Demi."

"One moment," the woman's fingers danced on her computer keyboard. "Yes, Ms. Picard checked in about noon," she said without looking up. "You said your name was-"

"Marten. With an 'e.' Nicholas Marten."

"I don't seem to have a reservation for you, Mr. Marten. Is there any other name it might be under?"

"I-" Marten hesitated; she'd given him an opening he would be foolish not to use. "I was to have been registered with the small group that included Ms. Picard and Reverend Rufus Beck from Washington, D.C. Reverend Beck has checked in too hasn't he?"

Again the woman's fingers worked the keyboard. "Reverend Beck has a reservation but has not yet arrived."

Marten was right. Demi had followed Beck here. "And you say you have no reservation for me?" he asked with all sincerity.

"No, sir."

"I was afraid something like this would happen. Never trust a new secretary to do your own work." Marten looked off, as if trying to decide what to do next, then looked back. "Do you have a room? Anything will do," he smiled, "Please, it's been a very long day already."

She looked at him sympathetically. "Let me see what I can find."

Room 3117 was small but with a view of the street below and Marten stood at the edge of the window looking down at it. He hadn't liked using his own name to check in, but he had hardly come prepared with an alias or false documents, so he'd had no choice.

Still, he was reasonably certain he'd lost his salt-and-pepper-haired, yellow-polo-shirted tail-and he was sure the man had been tailing him. He'd followed him at a distance the first five blocks Marten had walked after leaving the Aerobus stop at Plaça Catalunya. Then Marten had deliberately entered a tapas bar on Pelai Street, where he'd had a light lunch and lingered for nearly an hour. Then, playing the tourist and taking his time, he left and walked toward the Plaça de la Universitat, stopping to browse in a bookstore, then a shoe store, and then spending a solid thirty minutes exploring a huge Zara department store before going out a side exit and making his way to the hotel on Rambla de Catalunya. In none of those places had he seen Salt and Pepper.

Who he was or who the baggy-jacketed man who had followed him from Valletta was, he had no idea, except that it had begun in Malta, where the main attraction had been Merriman Foxx. Assuming Foxx had finally done his homework and found Marten had no connection whatsoever to Congresswoman Baker then his displeasure would be greater now than it had been at the Café Tripoli the night before. He would want to know who Marten was and what else he knew and why he was doing what he was, and if he reported to someone. And once he learned enough to satisfy him, Marten could almost certainly be assured the South African would find a way to permanently put an end to his curiosity.

Marten watched a moment longer then turned from the window and started back across the room. As he did, his cell phone rang. Immediately he clicked on, hoping it was Peter Fadden with information about the Washington, D.C., clinic where Caroline had been taken. Instead he heard the familiar voice of Ian Graff, his supervisor at Fitzsimmons and Justice. Marten loved his work and his employers and he liked Graff a great deal. But he needed none of it now.

"Ian," he said, surprised, trying to be pleasant. "Hello."

"Marten, where the hell are you?"

The rotund, widely read, highly educated Graff, normally pleasant and easygoing, became difficult and quick-tempered under pressure. And Marten knew all too well the ever-increasing pressure to finalize the plans for the large and costly Banfield country estate project they were working on.

"I'm in-" there was no point in lying, "Barcelona."

"Barcelona? We tried your hotel in Washington. They said you'd checked out. We assumed you were on your way back here."

"I'm sorry, I should have called."

"Yes, you should have. You should also be at your desk right now."

"I apologize, but this is something very important."

"So is the Banfield project, if you understand what I'm saying."

"I understand, Ian. I do. Completely."

"Just how long is this 'very important' whatever it is going to keep you occupied?"

"I don't know," Marten crossed to the window and looked out. Still no Salt and Pepper, at least that he could see. Just traffic and pedestrians. "What do you need that I can walk you through from here? Is the problem with the plant selection, the grading permits, the ordering, what?"

"The problem is Mr. Banfield and his wife. They have decided the rhododendron woods should be on the south hill not the north and that the north hill should be planted instead with eighty to a hundred ginkgo trees."

"Ginkgo trees?"

"Yes."

Marten turned from the window. "They'll grow too high and too thick and will block their view of the river."

"Exactly what we told them. But that's nothing compared to what they want to do with the forsythia, azalea, and hydrangea placements."

"They approved all those ten days ago."

"Well they disapproved all those this morning. They've agreed to pay for the changes. They just won't have the schedule interrupted. If I were you I would hustle my bum back here on the next plane out."

"I can't do that, Ian. Not right now."

"Are you employed by us or not?"

"Please try to understand what I'm doing here is difficult and very personal. If-" A sudden loud knock on Marten's door stopped him in mid sentence. A second knock followed immediately.

"Ian, hang on a moment, please."

Marten went into the short hallway that separated the room from the front door. He was almost to the door when the thought suddenly hit-what if he hadn't lost Salt and Pepper after all? What if he was right outside in the corridor and Merriman Foxx had decided he wasn't going to play who-what-and-why but was simply going to have him eliminated right then?

The knock came again.

"Christ," Marten breathed. Immediately he brought the phone to his ear. "Ian," he said in a voice just above a whisper, "I need to take care of something. E-mail the changes and I'll get back to you as soon as I can."