Harris stood up and flushed the toilet and was about to open the door when he saw a folded copy of La Van-guardia with his photograph on the cover lying on the floor near his feet. Immediately he saw it as a prop, something he could use to casually shield his face on the way through the station until he found an entrance to the maintenance corridors he was looking for. Additionally, he might learn something of the smoke-screen story the White House press corps had put out and see how "his friends," most especially the master manipulator Jake Lowe, had managed to sound the general alarm without telling the truth or upsetting the public any more than had already been done.

Quickly Harris picked up the paper, tucked it under his arm, then flushed the toilet once more, opened the stall door, and went out.

• HOTEL REGENTE MAJESTIC, 7:15 P.M.

Nicholas Marten sat alone in the hotel lounge waiting for a cell phone call back from Peter Fadden who was now in Madrid, gone there to cover the story surrounding the abrupt evacuation of the president from the Hotel Ritz the night before. Fadden had been on with him momentarily, then had to click off to take another call, promising to call back right away.

His hair slicked back and dressed in fresh khakis, crew-neck sweater, and light sport coat, Marten looked appreciably different from the man who had checked into this same hotel and then checked out only a short while later. His situation was helped too by the fact that none of the hotel staff who had been on earlier was on duty now.

Demi, he'd learned to his great relief, had not checked out as he'd feared. Moreover Reverend Beck had finally arrived and registered, though neither was in their rooms at present, or at least they weren't answering their phones if they were. Marten had checked the bar, coffee shop, and restaurant just to make certain they weren't there. Therefore he felt it safe to assume that unless they were in another guest room somewhere, they were not in the building.

His seat in the lounge gave him a view of the front door, the registration desk, and the elevators past it. Meaning that Demi or Beck or both would have to pass by him when they returned. He didn't like sitting there exposed as he was, but in his days as an LAPD detective he'd done enough surveillance to know the mechanics of it. Come and go once in a while, pretend you're waiting for someone who has yet to arrive. Ultimately, of course, he would have to leave, but not at the moment. And at the moment what he was doing was buying time waiting for Demi to return and for Peter Fadden to call. Time, on the other hand, was itself problematic. By now Foxx or whoever had set Karl Melzer on his trail would know Melzer was dead and would have scurried to get someone to take his place. After that there would be calls to every hotel in Barcelona looking for someone who had registered as Nicholas Marten-"I'm trying to find a friend" or "my cousin, his name is"-or something like that, Melzer's replacement would say. And even with as many hotels as there were in the city, it would probably take less than half an hour to find him. Then they would know where he was and the entire thing would begin again.

Marten was turning to get a better view of the front door when his cell phone chirped and he clicked on.

"This is Marten."

"It's Peter," Fadden's voice was as clear as if he were sitting beside him. "Sorry it took so long. The Secret Service took the president out of the hotel in the middle of the night to an undisclosed location. They're saying it was a credible terrorist kidnap threat and that the suspects are still loose and trying to get out of the country. They've got just about every Spaniard who can fit into a uniform trying to find them never mind what's going on with the Secret Service, CIA, and the FBI."

"I know, Peter, I saw the news."

"Whatever's going on I'm pretty much here alone. The White House press secretary shut down everything and sent the whole press corps back to Washington. Why, I don't know, except that's where all the official news will come from once something breaks. Of course they'll all turn right around and bring everybody back for the NATO meeting Monday in Warsaw. But that's not what you want to talk about. It's the Caroline Parsons thing. The clinic, that stuff."

"Yes."

"The clinic is legitimate. She was taken from her home to the Silver Spring Rehabilitation Center in Silver Spring, Maryland. She was there for six days until she was transferred to University Hospital. Dr. Stephenson was a consulting physician there and approved her admittance and then the transfer. No one on staff ever heard of or saw anyone who looked like Foxx."

Marten took a breath, then glanced around the room. Maybe a dozen people at most were gathered at surrounding tables. None was paying him the slightest attention. He turned back to the phone.

"Peter, I've got something else. Stephenson and Foxx belonged to a cult, a coven of witches-"

"Witches?"

"Yes."

"Oh for chrissake!"

"Peter, stop and listen," Marten demanded sotto voce.

"I told you before how Foxx had a tiny balled cross tattooed on his thumb. Stephenson had one too. And maybe Beck as well."

Marten looked up as a young couple sat down at a small table next to him. He got up and walked toward the hotel's lobby, cell phone to his ear.

"That balled cross is the sign of Aldebaran," Marten said as he went, "the pale red star that forms the left eye in the constellation Taurus. It is also called the 'Eye of God.'"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Some kind of cult, Peter."

"And you think this 'cult' had something to do with Caroline Parsons's death and those of her husband and son?"

"Possibly. I don't know. But Foxx was increasingly upset when I questioned him. I told you he denied knowing Stephenson at all. Maybe your people found no record of him being at the clinic when Caroline was there but she not only described what he looked like and what his hands looked like but the tattoo as well. Peter, he was at the clinic, believe me. Beck was with him in Malta. And now Beck is here in Barcelona and is expected to meet with him again soon. I'm trying to find out where and when. If I do maybe I'll find out why."

Marten had reached the lobby and was crossing it. A bellman pushing a luggage cart was coming toward him. He stopped and turned away.

"Peter, there's something else. Foxx, or someone, had me followed from Valletta to Barcelona. It was a professional job-one guy handed me off to another at Barcelona airport. I thought I lost him, but he showed up at a restaurant where I was having lunch. I found later he was German, a civil engineer working for a company in Munich."

"Why would a civil engineer be-?"

"That's what I said. But it's legitimate, I called his office and checked up on him."

"Where is he now?"

"Dead."

"What?"

The bellman passed and Marten turned back. As he did the elevator doors across the lobby opened. To his surprise he saw Demi walk out. With her was Reverend Beck and an older woman, Spanish or Italian maybe, and dressed in black.

"Peter, I've got to go. I'll check in with you when I can."

Instantly Marten clicked off then watched the threesome cross the lobby toward the front door. He held back as they went out, watching as Beck spoke with the doorman. A moment later a taxi pulled up, the three got in, and the taxi drove off.

Marten pushed through the door and went out. "Do you speak English?" he asked the doorman.

"Yes, sir."

"The three people who just left. I'm part of a group traveling with the reverend. I was supposed to meet them somewhere but I lost my itinerary. Do you happen to know where they went?"

"To church, señor."