On the way home late that night I was guilt-tripping and a little shaky about what I'd told Sampson, but I felt I'd had no choice. John was my family, simple as that. Also, maybe I was on burnout because we were working eighteen-to-twenty-hour days. Maybe the stress was getting to me. There was a lot of disaster planning going on behind the scenes, but nobody I talked to knew where we were on the ransom demands. Everybody's nerves were frayed, including mine. About twelve hours were gone on our deadline.

Other questions burned in my mind. Was Shafer the one who had murdered and maimed the woman we'd found on New Jersey Avenue? I was almost sure he was, and Sampson agreed. But why commit that type of grisly murder now? Why risk it? I sure as hell doubted it was a coincidence that the young woman's body had been dumped less than two miles from my house.

It was late and I wanted to think about something else, anything else, but I couldn't get my head off the case. I drove the old Porsche faster than I needed to on the mostly empty streets, knowing I had to focus on the driving. It didn't really work too well, though.

I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head before I went inside. Things to do. I needed to give Jamilla a call-it was only eleven on the coast. I felt as though my head would explode. And I knew when I'd felt this way before: the last time the Weasel went on a killing spree in Washington. Only this was so much worse.

I finally trudged inside the house, past the old piano on the sunporch. I thought about sitting down and playing. A little blues? Broadway? At two in the morning? Sure, why not. I couldn't sleep, anyway.

The phone began to ring and I ran to get it. Awhh, Jesus, who the hell?

I snatched up the phone on the kitchen wall near the fridge.

"Hello. Cross."

Nothing.

And then a hang-up.

Seconds later, the phone rang again. I picked up after one ring.

Another hang-up.

And another after that.

I took the phone off the hook. Set it on the counter inside Nana's oven mitt to muffle the sound.

I heard a noise behind me.

I turned around quickly.

Nana was standing there in the doorway, all five feet, ninety-five pounds of her. Her brown eyes were fired up.

"What's wrong, Alex? What are you doing up?" she asked. "This isn't right. Who's calling the house this late at night?"

I sat down at the kitchen table, and over some tea I told Nana everything that I could.

The next day I was paired up with Monnie Donnelley, which was good news for both of us. Our assignment was to gather information on Colonel Shafer and the mercenaries being used in the attacks; our timetable- fast, incredibly fast.

Monnie, as usual, already knew a lot about the subject, and she talked nonstop while she retrieved even more data for the case. Once Monnie gets going, it's difficult to get her to stop, almost impossible. The woman is relentless about facts being the way to truth.

"Mercenaries, the 'dogs of war,' so-called. Mostly former soldiers from Special Forces-Delta Force, Army Rangers, SEALs, SAS if they're Brits. Many are totally legit, Alex, though they operate in a kind of legal netherworld. What I mean is that they aren't subject to the U.S. military's code of conduct or even our laws. Technically, they're subject to the laws of the countries where they serve, but some of those hot spots have piss-poor judicial systems, if they have any system at all."

"So they're pretty much on their own. That would appeal to Shafer. Most mercenaries work for private companies now?"

Monnie nodded. "Yes, they do, Grasshopper. Private military companies, PMCs. Earn as much as twenty thousand a month. Average probably closer to three or four. Some of the larger PMCs have their own artillery, tanks. Even fighter jets, if you can believe it."

"I can. These days I can believe anything. Hell, I even believe in the big bad Wolf."

Monnie turned away from her computer screen and looked at me. I sensed that one of her famous "stats" was on the way. "Alex, the Defense Department currently has over three thousand contracts with U.S.-based PMCs. Contracts are valued at over three hundred billion dollars. You believe that?"

I whistled. "Well, that sort of puts the Wolf's demands in perspective, doesn't it?"

"Pay the man," said Monnie. " Then we'll go catch him."

"It's not my call. But I don't entirely disagree. At least that could be a plan."

Monnie went back to her computer. "Here's a tidbit on the Weasel. Worked with an outfit called Mainforce International. Listen to this-offices in London, Washington, and Frankfurt."

That got my attention. "Three of the targeted cities. What else do you have on Mainforce?"

"Let me see. Clients include financial institutions; oil, of course; precious stones."

"Diamonds?"

"Are a mercenary's best friend. Shafer was going under the name Timothy Heath. Worked in Guinea to 'free' some mines taken over by 'the populace.' Heath/Shafer was arrested in Guinea, charged with trying to bribe local officials. He had a million pounds on him, cash, when he was arrested."

"How did he get out of that one?"

"Says he escaped. Hmmm. No detail. No follow-up, either. Odd."

"That's one thing the Weasel's always been good at. Wiggling out of tight spots. Getting away with it. Maybe that's why the Wolf wanted him for this job."

"No," said Monnie, and she turned and stared into my eyes, "the Wolf wanted him because Geoffrey Shafer has gotten under your skin. And because you're close to the director of the FBI."

At two that same afternoon, I was on my way to Cuba, Guantánamo Bay. Gitmo, as it's called. I was on a mission from the director, and also the president of the United States. Lately, our base at Guantánamo Bay had been much in the news on account of more than seven hundred "detainees" being held there in connection with the war on terror. An interesting place, to say the least. A historical one, for better or worse.

Once I landed, I was escorted to Camp Delta, the site of most of the cellblocks. All around the prison area were several guard towers and razor wire. According to a rumor I'd heard on the ride down, one U.S. corporation was receiving in excess of a hundred million dollars a year for services provided at Guantánamo Bay.

The man I was there for was originally from Saudi Arabia. He was being kept in the small psych ward on the grounds, which was in a separate building from the cellblocks. I wasn't given his name. Nor was I told very much about him, except that he had important information about the Wolf.

I met with the prisoner inside a "quiet room," an isolation cell with mattresses on the walls and no windows. Two small chairs had been brought into the room for the purpose of the interview.

"I've told the others everything I know," he said to me in very good English. "I thought that we made a deal for my release. I was promised as much two days ago. Everybody here lies. So who are you?"

"I was sent down here from Washington to listen to your story. Just tell me everything again. This can only help you. It can't hurt."

The prisoner nodded wearily. "No, nothing can hurt me anymore. It's true. You know, I have been here two hundred and twenty-seven days. I did not do anything wrong. Not a single thing. I was teaching high school in Newark, New Jersey. I have never been charged with anything. What do you think of that?"

"I think you have a way out of here now. Just tell me what you know about the Russian who goes by the name Wolf."

"And why do I talk to you? I think I may have missed that part. Who are you, again?"