Rubber shrilled behind Lourds as the sedan navigated the alley and skidded to a stop beside him. Kristine rolled off and grabbed him under one arm while one of the men grabbed him under the other.

‘This is the professor?’ the man asked.

‘Yes,’ Kristine answered.

Together, they unceremoniously shoved him into the sedan’s rear seat. Thinking quickly, Lourds grabbed the door handle, yanked, and tried to escape. Another man filled the door and batted Lourds back into the car with a hard elbow to the head. Lourds’ hat fell into the alley as he toppled back dazed against the seat. The man stooped long enough to get the hat and push it into Lourds’ face, then sat down beside him and slammed the door.

Kristine crowded in on Lourds’ other side. The two other men slid into the front seat beside the driver.

‘Go! Go!’ the man in the passenger seat roared, and slapped the dash impatiently.

The driver pressed his foot heavily on the accelerator and they shot out of the alley into the street. They skidded wildly for a moment, losing traction across the pavement, then the driver regained control.

Lourds glanced through the back window and hoped to see a police car there. He didn’t know how he was going to explain his current predicament, but having to explain it rather than survive it had to be an improvement.

A sharp pain bit into the inside of his right thigh. When he looked down, he saw the man beside him had stabbed a hypodermic into his leg. He grabbed for it but the man was already pushing the plunger. More pain invaded Lourds’ leg, along with a cool sensation that quickly spread.

‘What is that?’ Kristine asked.

‘Something to knock him out.’ The man withdrew the hypodermic. ‘From what we’ve seen, he is nothing but trouble.’

Lourds wanted to object. None of this had been his fault, but a warm lassitude drifted through him and he found he couldn’t quite gather his thoughts.

Then the waiting darkness claimed him.

Zola

800 F Street

Washington, D.C.

United States of America

15 March 2010

Dawson grabbed his briefcase, slid out of his Dodge Charger, and tossed the keys to the young female valet.

‘Good evening, sir.’ The valet caught the keys one-handed and held the door for him.

‘Somewhere close.’ He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. ‘I may be leaving quickly.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The International Spy Museum and the Spy City Café sat adjacent to Zola in the Le Droit Building. The vice-president had chosen to meet him there for a late dinner. The refurbished restaurant was a favourite of the man’s, but wasn’t one that the Agency often used. Dawson thought it amusing that the vice-president wanted to meet his private spy there.

The Le Droit Building was old, a hangover from past glories in the nation’s capital, but it had been recently remodelled and shone like a jewel. Zola was one of the district’s chic places to eat and had private dining rooms.

The maître d’ greeted Dawson when he stepped into the foyer. ‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’

‘I’ll be joining someone,’ Dawson replied.

One of the vice-president’s security people stepped forward. Dawson didn’t remember the man’s name. They all tended to look alike: young, tough and emotionless. The earwig in his ear gave him an other-worldly appearance. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the device, but Dawson was acutely aware of it.

‘He’s with us,’ the security man said.

The maître d’ smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘Good evening, Special Agent Dawson.’ The security man nodded to the CIA SAC.

‘Good evening.’ Dawson shot his cuffs. ‘Is he already here?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s in the same dining room. Do you know the way?’

Dawson said he did and started off at once. Anxiety knotted his stomach as he strode through the red and black décor. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps.

Two security guards stood outside the private dining area. Like the first, both wore black suits and earwigs.

‘Good evening, Special Agent Dawson,’ the older of the two said.

‘Good evening, Special Agent Reeves.’ Dawson remembered this man’s name easily. The vice-president never went anywhere without him. Without being asked, Dawson gave his briefcase to the younger of the two agents.

Reeves made no apology for their quick search of the briefcase’s contents. The vice-president was adamant about his personal security. All the briefcase contained was Dawson’s encrypted notebook computer and a satellite phone keyed to it.

The younger agent handed Dawson’s briefcase back. ‘Here you go, sir. Everything looks in order.’

Dawson accepted the case, then Reeves knocked on the door.

‘Yes?’ the vice-president called.

‘Special Agent Dawson is here, sir.’

‘Good,’ the vice-president said. ‘Show him in.’

Elliott Webster, former senator from New Hampshire and party whip and now vice-president of the United States of America, stood at one end of the intimate dining table. He was an inch over six feet tall and maybe twenty pounds overweight but it looked good on him. He was in his late forties but easily looked twenty years younger due to the strong jawline and the dark blond hair that had refused to grey. His cerulean blue eyes invited friendship and promised trustworthiness within a nano-second of being turned on someone. Many men instinctively trusted him and many women wanted to coddle him. No matter how imposing the setting in which Dawson saw Webster, the vice-president seemed to fill the room. The man oozed charisma.

He’d grown up in a small town in New Hampshire and started his own software company when he was sixteen. By the time he was in college at Harvard, majoring in business, he’d created two dot-com search engines that had boosted him into millionaire status. At about the same time, he’d become interested in politics because the oil shortage of the 1970s had impacted his business.

In an interview with Barbara Walters, Webster had admitted that his initial interest in politics had stemmed from corporate affairs.

‘You just can’t do business in this day and age without knowing something about the national and international political climate,’ Webster had said. A lot of businessmen had followed his example.

Webster hadn’t pawned off the responsibility to lobbyists, though. He’d dug into the legislation himself. As he’d learned how to negotiate those murky waters and become even more successful, a groundswell of grass roots support had sprung up to put him in office as a New Hampshire senator. He’d graciously turned down the offer.

With the advent of stem cell research and his own investments in the field, Webster had again been stymied by legal pressures. That had been the first major stumbling block in his career, but it hadn’t lasted long.

Webster’s wife, Vanessa Hart Webster, the former Miss America who had won the hearts of a nation with her beauty and glorious voice, had been the perfect foil for her husband. She was glamorous and educated, and loved children and animals. The camera loved her, too. After she’d retired from her year as Miss America, she’d gone to work with Webster. They’d married soon after. They’d been practically inseparable since. Vanessa Webster had spent several stints in the Middle East shoring up troop morale. Her husband’s gaming companies had donated millions of dollars worth of products for the young soldiers. The Webplay system and its innovative games had been given extensive exposure in the media and through the military. Vanessa had organized charitable medical help for the children and soldiers wounded in the war. Her husband had contributed heavily to causes that helped the soldiers and their families back home. The media started talking about ‘Vanessa’s War’ as she continued her efforts. Five years into the marriage, though, Vanessa had become ravaged by pancreatic cancer. She was by that time the hostess of her own nationally syndicated talk show, dedicated to finding charities who would benefit from her husband’s money. Even as she fought the disease, she became a spokesperson advocating stem cell research to cure cancer. The nation, and her terrified husband, had watched her wither and die for over a year.