“I don’t know.”

“He has the tapes with him?”

“I’m sorry, Geoff, but I’m late for an appointment,” she said, walking away.

He stayed at her side. “He has the tapes. Right?”

“Yes. He has the tapes,” she responded, picking up her pace in the direction of the Main Hall and Massachusetts Avenue.

He grabbed her arm. “Kathryn,” he said, “don’t play games with me. I want those tapes. I need those tapes.”

“Get your hands off me,” she snapped, shaking him loose and continuing to walk.

He kept stride with her. “Rich wouldn’t have his book contract if it hadn’t been for me,” he said. “I set it up for him. He owes me!”

They reached Mass Avenue, where a dozen cabs awaited passengers. The dispatcher opened the door to the first taxi in line and Kathryn jumped in. So did Lowe.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked.

“I’m sticking with you, Kathryn. You’ll be in touch with Rich. He has the tapes. I want them. I’m hanging in with you until I get them.”

The cabdriver, tired of the delay, turned and asked, “You want a taxi or a marriage counselor?”

Kathryn’s nostrils flared as she glared at Lowe. “The Watergate Apartments,” she told the driver through clenched teeth.

The train hadn’t gone far when Stripling’s cell phone sounded.

“Yeah?”

“Subject’s female partner reported en route to Watergate apartment.” The terse message ended with a sharp click.

Stripling knew the Watergate was Mackensie Smith’s apartment. It occurred to him that no one knew he was on a train headed for New York, seated behind the subject of the search, Richard Marienthal-or that he was within reach of the infamous tapes at the heart of the search. Not that it mattered-except to the cop who would have his car towed. His whereabouts were otherwise irrelevant. What did matter was taking possession of the tapes and delivering them to Curly and Moe, or Mark Roper, or Gertrude Klaus, or whoever else wanted them.

He surveyed the rest of the car. No wonder Amtrak was losing money, he thought. There were only three other passengers, two women working on laptops seated at the far end of the car and a man at the opposite end who’d dozed off, his head resting against the window.

“We’ll shortly be arriving at Baltimore International Airport,” a voice soon announced over the PA system. “Passengers getting off at that station should be sure to gather any personal belongings.”

Stripling’s mind now shifted into a higher gear. How many new passengers would board this car at Baltimore? Would Marienthal decide to change his seat, perhaps move to another, more crowded car? Was there anything to be gained by waiting to arrive in New York before making his move to snatch the bag? He decided there wasn’t. He’d been on this train before. The Baltimore airport stop would be a brief one, no more than a few minutes.

This was the time to act.

When the train stopped and the doors opened, he would move quickly and definitely. He would get up, step to where Marienthal sat, press the gun to the writer’s head, simultaneously grab the bag from the seat, and run from the car. It would take only seconds. He mentally timed out his moves. Two seconds to get from his seat to Marienthal, two seconds to brandish the gun and swipe the bag, three seconds to run from the seat to the door. Seven seconds in all. It would happen so fast that by the time Marienthal recovered from the initial shock of a gun at his head, Stripling would be gone, down the stairs from the platform and into the crowd. Marienthal wouldn’t even see who’d taken the bag. And if he did, he’d never be able to mentally process the man he’d seen in those fleeting two seconds of face-to-face contact.

The train slowed as it neared the station, and Stripling tensed. He slipped his hand beneath his suit jacket and wrapped his fingers around the stock of the Smith & Wesson. Just don’t make a dumb move, he silently warned Marienthal. Don’t get hurt over some silly tapes.

Almost there.

Marienthal stood.

Stripling blinked. What was Marienthal about to do, get off at the Baltimore airport station?

Marienthal stood in the aisle next to his seat, looked down at his shoulder bag, and headed up the aisle toward the restrooms. It took Stripling a moment to shake off his surprise. He looked back and saw Marienthal disappear into one of the lavatories. The train came to a noisy stop, and Stripling heard the whoosh of doors opening. He jumped up, reached over Marienthal’s seat back, grabbed the bag by its shoulder strap, walked quickly from the train, went down the steps two at a time, and hailed a waiting taxi.

“Where to?” he was asked by the driver.

“The nearest car rental agency,” Stripling replied, settling back and smiling.

He was delivered to a Hertz office, where he rented a midsize sedan, drove from the garage, and headed for the highway leading back to Washington. While stopped at a light, he unzipped the bag and shoved his hand inside. What he felt was soft, cloth. He pulled two pairs of socks and shorts from the bag, followed by a black T-shirt, a handkerchief, and a leather kit containing toiletries.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

The light had turned green; drivers behind him leaned on their horns. He went through the intersection, pulled to the curb, and surveyed what he’d taken from the bag. “Son of a bitch!” he said loudly, flinging the clothing to the floor. “Son of a bitch.”

The taxi carrying Kathryn Jalick and Geoff Lowe from Union Station pulled up at the entrance to Mac and Annabel’s Watergate apartment building. Kathryn had taken money from her purse prior to arriving and handed it to the driver. She opened the door on her side. Lowe opened his and grabbed the handles of the shopping bag. So did Kathryn.

“I’ll carry it for you,” Lowe said.

“I’ll carry it myself,” she responded angrily.

They entered the lobby, where Kathryn gave her name to the uniformed man behind the reception desk and said she was there to visit with the Mackensie Smiths.

“Yes, Ms. Jalick. Mr. Smith told me you’d be coming and said to send you right up.” He pushed a button behind the desk that activated the lock on a set of glass doors leading to the inner lobby and elevators. Lowe headed for them with her.

“Sir,” the lobby guard said sternly.

“I’m with her,” Lowe said.

“No he’s not,” Kathryn said, pushing open the doors.

“I’m on Senator Widmer’s staff,” Lowe said.

“I’ll call Mr. Smith,” said the guard.

The doors closed behind Kathryn, and Lowe watched her enter a waiting elevator.

Mac Smith answered the internal call from the front desk.

“Mr. Smith, there’s a Mr. Lowe here who accompanied Ms. Jalick. He wishes to come up.”

“Have him wait,” Smith said, “until Ms. Jalick arrives. I’ll ask her.”

A few minutes later, Smith called back. “Tell Mr. Lowe he’ll have to wait until Ms. Jalick says he can join her.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lowe visibly fumed. “Senator Widmer won’t like this,” he told the guard. “Somebody’s going to answer for this.” He paced the outer lobby while pulling out his cell phone and calling information in New York City. A minute later he was connected with Sam Greenleaf at Hobbes House.

“Rich Marienthal is on his way to New York,” Lowe told Greenleaf. “He has the tapes.”

“He’s coming here?” Greenleaf said.

“Where else would he be going?”

“His parents live in New York” was Greenleaf’s reply.

“That’s right. But why would he take the tapes to his parents’ home?”

“This whole project is becoming nightmarish, Geoff. Pamela’s on the warpath and-”