She took back her hand and wiped her eyes.

I glanced at the phone. There was no one near it. "I think we're okay. You ready to get some real sleep?"

"I'm ready for a cheeseburger. Then sleep."

At nine-thirty the next morning, we were crossing Memorial Bridge, rolling toward the Lincoln Memorial. I'd last visited Washington to film part of the NOVA series based on my book. The contrast between that visit and today did not bear thinking about.

We found a Kinko's copy shop southeast of Capitol Hill and in twenty minutes had the passport photos we'd been instructed to drop off at the Au Bon Pain cafe in Union Station. As I drove toward the station, pedestrian traffic increased, and I began to get nervous. With Washington topping the list of terrorist targets, there were bound to be surveillance cameras near all impor¬tant public buildings. They might not be visible, but they would be there. And the NSA had the computing power to do visual searches of those surveillance tapes. I kept well clear of the Mall and parked in a lot on the east side of Union Station.

As we walked toward the massive white granite building, we moved quickly toward the main entrance. Rachel kept abreast of me all the way, a Kinko's bag swinging from her right hand. She didn't know that I was carrying my revolver in the small of my back, beneath my shirt. If there were metal detectors at the sta¬tion's entrance, I would have to return to the truck. Dozens of people were lined up at the entrance, but after watching the flow of visitors, I breathed a sigh of relief. They were moving too quickly to be passing through serious security.

Once through the doors, we joined the throngs moving through the renovated beaux arts rail station. We passed an elevated restaurant standing in the middle of the floor, then moved farther into the cavernous main hall. This led into a multilevel mall area where tour groups, travelers, and shoppers jostled each other on walkways and curving staircases, marveling at the statuary and pointing into store windows. I could tell by the rumbling under my shoes that trains were running nearby, yet my surround¬ings looked as pristine as a museum.

"There's the Au Bon Pain," Rachel said, pulling me to the left.

A huge B. Dalton bookstore anchored this end of the mall, and the Au Bon Pain cafe was on its right. People moved quickly in and out of the cafe, and I could see that our contact had chosen well.

Rachel walked through the wide entrance and joined a queue before some coffee urns on a marble table. I joined her, casually scanning the tables to our right. She'd been instructed to look for a woman carrying a copy of The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir. I figured I would be able to guess which woman would carry that book by appearance alone.

At a table near the back I saw a red-haired woman of fifty with no makeup and a hard line of a mouth. She kept her eyes on the table, as though afraid she might be accosted by a stranger. I was preparing to wager a hun¬dred dollars that this was our contact when Rachel pulled at my arm and pointed at a fortyish African-American woman standing by the pastry racks and read¬ing The Second Sex. Rachel left the queue and approached her.

"I haven't seen that book in years!" Rachel said. "Not since college. Is it still relevant today?"

The woman looked up and smiled, her eyes bright and welcoming. "It's a bit dated, but valuable from a historical perspective." She offered a brown hand bejeweled with rings. "I'm Mary Venable."

"Hannah Stephens," said Rachel. "Very nice to meet you."

I was amazed by how easily she slipped into her role. Maybe psychiatrists were natural liars. As I walked for¬ward, I heard Mary Venable say softly, "It's an honor to meet you. Doctor. You've helped so many."

"Thank you," Rachel replied. Then, much louder, she said, "I never knew how Simone stood being Sartre's lover. The man looked like a frog. And that's no slur on the French. He truly did!"

Mary Venable laughed so naturally that I almost didn't see her take the Kinko's bag from Rachel's hand and drop it into a big woven African purse at her feet.

"If I finish this tonight," Venable said, "I'll lend it to you tomorrow. I'll be here about this time."

"I might see you then," Rachel said.

Mary Venable leaned in close and said, "Tell your man he needs to hide his piece a little better."

While Rachel stood puzzled, Mary Venable squeezed her hand with affection, then picked up the purse and walked away. As she passed me, she caught my eye for only a moment, but in that moment I read her message loud and clear: You'd best take care of that woman, mister.

I walked up to Rachel, who looked oddly at me. "Was she referring to something anatomical?"

"I'll tell you later." I took hold of Rachel's arm and led her out of the store.

"I didn't know there was a mall here," she said. "Can we get some clothes?"

"Not here. I don't really see the kind of place we need. We want one big department store that carries everything."

"Maybe on the upper level?"

"Not here," I insisted.

As I led her back toward the main entrance, a D.C. cop walked past us. My heart flew into my throat. I was sure he had started a double take just as we passed. I wanted to turn and check, but I didn't dare.

"What's the matter?" Rachel asked, sensing my ten¬sion.

"I think they're looking for us here."

"Of course they are."

"I mean publicly. I think that cop just recognized me."

She started to turn, but I shook my head hard enough to stop her.

"You mean it's not just the NSA anymore," she said.

"I'm afraid not. Stay beside me, and be ready to run."

We passed a tree growing from a huge planter in the middle of the floor. I pulled Rachel behind it and looked back from cover. The cop was walking in our footsteps and craning his neck, trying to see around the planter. He was also speaking into a collar radio.

"We're blown," I said. "Come on!"

I grabbed Rachel's hand and doubled my walking speed. Instead of making for the main entrance, I veered toward a staircase that swept up to the next level, using the crowd for concealment.

"Up?" Rachel asked, pointing at the stairs.

"No." My goal was the trains. I moved toward the ticketing area to our left, but a female voice over the PA stopped me.

"Attention, all travelers. Attention. All incoming and outgoing trains will be stopped immediately for mainte¬nance reasons. Please remain on the platforms, and we will issue further bulletins as we have more information. Thank you for your patience."

Adrenaline flushed through my body. The announcer was repeating the message in Spanish.

"Back to the stairs," I said, reversing direction.

"Up or down?"

"Up!"

We took the steps two at a time. On the next floor, I leaned far enough over the rail to see the cop who had spotted us. He was still on the main floor, trying to decide which way we had gone. He looked up, shielding his eyes against the lights, then started toward the stairs.

"Why did they stop the trains?" Rachel asked.

"Us."

"They're shutting down all the trains in Union Station to find us?"

"Attention, please," said the PA announcer. "The police have asked that all shoppers and travelers move in a calm and methodical way to the exits. We apologize for this inconvenience. There is no danger of any kind to per¬sons or property. You may pay for your purchases, but we ask that you move to the exits as soon as possible. Thank you."

I could see the effort it was taking for Rachel to stay calm.

"We're not going to get out, are we?" she asked.

I looked over the balcony rail again. The cop was try¬ing to decide whether to come up or go down. "They must have triggered some sort of terrorist alert. That's the only way you could evacuate this place. There could be a hundred cops surrounding the building."