“We’re coming up on that time slice now,” Shaw noted. He paused. “Five, four, three, two.”

He broke off and everyone stared at the video of the highway.

“There!” Royce snapped. He was pointing to the far left lane where a black Mercedes swerved into the middle lane, nearly hitting a pickup truck.

Frank spoke into a headset. “Zoom in on the black Mercedes that almost took out that truck. And then freeze it.”

A few moments later the image of the Mercedes grew in size until it nearly took up the entire screen. Unfortunately, the angle wasn’t great; the driver, though clearly a man – something they already knew – wasn’t completely visible.

“White guy,” Shaw observed. “Thin, a little gray in the hair, but the doorjamb is hiding his face. Looks like he’s on the phone.”

“So are probably ninety percent of the people on that road,” Katie said.

Frank gave instructions to the tech and they tried it from different angles but without much success.

Shaw said, “Keep the film rolling. He pulled off after Katie spoke to him. We might get a good look at him or his license plate.”

Unfortunately, that did not turn out to be the case. The Mercedes had pulled off, leaving at the next exit, but any more images had been blocked by other traffic. They couldn’t see the man or the license plate once he left the highway.

“It’s a black Mercedes S500,” Frank said. “That narrows it down some. We’ll assume it’s registered in D.C., Maryland, or Virginia and start looking at motor vehicle records.”

Katie said, “This is a very affluent area. I think you’re going to find more S500s than you think. And you’re just assuming it’s from the area. It could be from any state, because we couldn’t see the license plate. You might be talking hundreds or thousands of people.”

“She’s right,” Royce said.

“We might have an easier way,” Shaw said. “It’s a toll road.”

Frank snapped his fingers. “They’ll have a camera there to record people who don’t pay. And if they don’t, dollars to donuts he’s got an electronic toll-paying device. That’ll give us a record.”

“How can you be so sure he pays his tolls electronically?” Royce asked.

“An S500 costs over a hundred grand. You spend that much on a ride, you’re not gonna be digging through your fancy pockets for quarters.”

Royce said, “But isn’t there a chance that the car swerved to avoid an accident? And isn’t connected to this at all?”

“And then shoots off the highway at the same time Katie tells the guy to on the phone? No, it’s him,” said Shaw. “You heard the tires squeal and a horn blare and the time sequence was dead-on with the film I shot.”

“We can check with the toll people and get a record for that booth at” – Frank glanced at the clock – “Four minutes past midnight.” He looked back at the highway film. “That’s the Wiehle Avenue exit off the Toll Road.”

“We get this guy and it’s all over,” Royce said. “We arrest him, extradite him back to London, and bloody well put him and his cohorts away forever.”

“Right,” Frank agreed.

Katie glanced nervously at Shaw. He was looking away from them, his expression stony.

I don’t see it that way, thought Shaw.

IT HAD TAKEN the selling of stocks and bonds, the liquidation of retirement funds, the pilfering of corporate accounts, and the rifling of safety deposit boxes, but Pender had raised the twenty million. He rose early on the second day after he had spoken to Katie James. He would now make arrangements for the wire transfer. He was desperately hoping the bonus from Creel would be closer to eight figures to compensate him for this unforeseen out-of-pocket expense. After that, he prayed he could put this whole ugly business behind him.

Divorced with two children in college and another a high school senior at an elite private school in Washington, Pender lived in a mansion in McLean, Virginia, home of many of the Washington area’s politically famous, or infamous, depending on one’s perspective. He loved his freedom, was immersed in his work, and his only sexual encounters were of the random variety, occasionally involving a young female employee trying to get a leg up in more ways than one. He preferred it that way – no commitments. He had never understood why a man as smart as Nicolas Creel would keep marrying women whose heads contained about as much brain matter as their breasts.

He had the twenty million, it was true, and he would wire it out. But what if James went ahead and wrote the story? Or what if she asked for more money? Or, even worse, what if Creel found out?

It will work. It has to.

He showered, dressed, gulped down a glass of orange juice, grabbed his briefcase, and headed out.

When he reached his garage, Dick Pender’s world suddenly turned black.

He awoke several hours later, on a cot in a small room. The only light came from a bright, shadeless lamp on a table. As he sat up and slowly looked around he could sense someone was in here with him, behind the wash of light from the lamp. He put his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare.

“What the hell is going on?” he said as bravely as he could, which wasn’t brave at all really as his voice cracked, his lips quivered, and he was nearly hyperventilating.

The big, angry-looking man stepped out from behind the light and Pender immediately shrank back against the wall.

A voice came at Pender from somewhere, he wasn’t sure.

“We only brought you here to keep you safe.”

The door opened, the overhead lights came on, and Pender found himself blinking rapidly. His face sagged when he saw who’d entered the room.

“You?” Pender said.

“Me,” Nicolas Creel answered as Caesar stood silently behind him.

WHILE APPARENTLY the government could spy on its citizens without benefit of a court-issued search warrant, determining whether a certain car had gone through a certain tollgate at a certain time was far more problematic. Shaw and the others found out that the video camera at the tollbooth Pender had taken was not working. Apparently so many motorists had run the booth without paying, been filmed, gotten a fine in the mail, and refused to pay it that the highway folks had simply given up. Now the camera was there as a deterrent, they were told. However, everyone knew it wasn’t functioning because a local newspaper had done a story on it, and so there went the deterrent.

Frank had next checked with the electronic toll payment company. They had balked at giving out the information to him, despite his credentials. He had summoned assistance from the police in Virginia. Armed with this official backing, another attempt had been made to get the information. Then they were told that there apparently had been a server glitch, electronic bug, or inadvertent file wipeout that happened from time to time. They were working on it and would get back to them.

“Get back to us!” screamed Frank over the phone. “Get back to us? The whole freaking world is about to go up in smoke and you’ll get back to us?”

The woman on the other end of the line told Frank that she didn’t care for his tone and they were doing the best they could, but that computers were not perfect.

“Well, honey,” Frank said, “by the time this is all over and the world has come to an end, who’ll give a shit about imperfect computers?”

The woman apparently had not been listening but rather reading from her script. She told Frank to have a nice day and if he had any other questions or concerns they’d be happy to help because customer service was their number one priority.

Frank slammed down the phone and would’ve ripped the hair off his head if he had any left.