The room was empty, of suspects anyway, and if anyone had been there recently, he’d left nothing behind. Bullington reappeared in the hall and commanded “Lock the building!” into a phone or walkie-talkie. He shot Kyle a look of complete astonishment, and Kyle began to fade. Agents hustled about, frantic with indecision and confusion. Some ran to the stairs, others to the elevators.

An old woman in 562 stepped into the hall and shouted, “Quiet!” but quickly lost her spunk when two frowning agents spun around with weapons. She retreated quickly, unharmed but awake for the night.

“Kyle, here please,” Bullington said, waving him into room 551. Kyle clutched the briefcase and entered the room. “Stay here for a few minutes,” Bullington said. “These two will remain with you.”

Kyle sat on the edge of the bed, briefcase between his feet, as his two guards closed the door and put away their guns. Minutes passed as he thought of a hundred scenes and scenarios, none particularly appealing. He thought of Roy, and called him. He was still at his office, waiting for the news.

“They got away,” Kyle said, his voice slow and weak.

“Whatta you mean?”

“We’re in the hotel room, and it’s empty. They’re gone, Roy.”

“Where are you?”

“Room 551, Oxford Hotel, under guard, I guess. The FBI is searching the hotel, but they won’t find anybody.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

WHILE THE HOTEL was being searched, three FBI agents entered Kyle’s apartment in Chelsea. Using his key, they entered quietly and began a sweep that would take four hours and produce three hidden cameras, a wiretap on his wall phone, and six other eavesdropping devices. Plenty of evidence to support indictments. A strong case for the feds, but what they really needed was some suspects.

Roy arrived at 11:00 p.m. He was met by Joe Bullington at the front door and escorted through the lobby. The hotel was still locked down, a room-by-room search under way with lots of unhappy guests, and the front desk was chaos.

Roy’s first question was “How’s Kyle?”

“Pretty rattled,” Bullington said. “Let’s take the stairs. The elevators have been stopped. Hell, we’re all rattled.”

The second question was the most obvious one. “What happened?”

“I do not know, Roy. It’s confusing.”

Kyle was seated on the edge of the bed, briefcase still between his feet, trench coat still on, staring blankly at the floor and ignoring the two agents who were guarding him. Roy put a hand on his shoulder, then knelt down to face level and said, “Kyle, you okay?”

“Sure.” It was somewhat helpful to see a trusted face.

Bullington was on the phone. He slapped it shut and said, “Look, there’s a suite on the second floor. It’s easier to secure and much larger. Let’s make a move.”

As they filed out, Kyle mumbled to his lawyer, “Did you hear that, Roy? Easier to secure. I’m being protected now.”

“It’s okay, Kyle.”

The suite had three rooms, one of which would work well as an office — desk, fax, wireless Internet, several comfortable chairs, and a small conference area at the far end. “This’ll do,” Bullington said as he ripped off his trench coat, then his jacket, as if they would be there for some time, and Kyle and Roy did the same. They took their seats and settled in. Two younger agents stayed by the door.

“Here’s what we know so far,” Bullington began, very much the special agent in charge. “The room was reserved this afternoon by a Mr. Randall Kerr, who used both a bogus name and a bogus credit card. Around 8:45, Mr. Kerr shows up to check in, alone, one small carry-on and a black briefcase, and in chatting up the desk clerk tells her that he just flew in from Mexico City. We’ve watched the video. It’s Bennie, with no effort at disguise. He went to his room, and according to the electronic entry grid he opened the door to room 551 at 8:58. He opened it again eighteen minutes later, leaving evidently, because the door was never used again. No one remembers seeing him exit the building. There are some video cameras in the hallways and lobby, but so far nothing. He’s vanished.”

“Of course he’s vanished,” Kyle said. “You won’t find him.”

“We’re trying.”

“What did you download, Kyle?” Roy asked.

“The Category A documents. Five or six times. I didn’t touch anything else.”

“And this went smoothly?”

“As far as I know. There were no problems inside the room.”

“What time did you start downloading?” Bullington asked.

“About 8:45.”

“And what time did you call Bennie?”

“Just before 10:00.”

Bullington thought for a second, then stated the obvious. “So Bennie waited until they got your signal, and once he knew you were downloading, he checked into the room. Eighteen minutes later he fled. That doesn’t make sense.”

“It does if you know Bennie,” Kyle said.

“I don’t follow,” Bullington said.

“Someone informed Bennie of our little plan, that much is obvious. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my lawyer. And the only other parties involved would be you, Mr. Bullington, the FBI, and Mr. Wingate and his gang over at Justice. We have no idea at this point, and we probably never will. Regardless, Bennie got the tip and decided to have some fun. He knew I would lead you here to catch him, so this is all a setup. Bennie’s probably down the street watching a hundred FBI agents swarm around the hotel and laughing his balls off.”

Bullington’s cheeks turned a dark red. He suddenly had a call to make and left the room.

“Take it easy, Kyle,” Roy said softly. Kyle locked his fingers behind his head and bent over. The briefcase was still wedged between his feet. He closed his eyes and tried to control his thoughts, but that was impossible. Roy watched him but said nothing. He went to the minibar and pulled out two bottles of water.

“We should talk,” Roy said, handing a bottle to Kyle. “We’ll have to make some quick decisions.”

“Okay. What do we do with this damned thing?” Kyle asked, patting the briefcase. “Scully doesn’t need it, because the documents are not confidential. I just stole a copy. They haven’t lost anything yet. Their files will appear to be untouched.”

“I’m sure the FBI will want it for evidence.”

“Evidence against who?”

“Bennie.”

“Bennie? Bennie’s gone, Roy, listen to me. They’ll never find Bennie, because he’s a helluva lot smarter than they are. Bennie won’t be arrested. Bennie won’t go to trial. Bennie’s on an airplane right now, probably a private one, looking at his fifteen passports and deciding which one to use next.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“And why not? Bennie outfoxed us tonight, didn’t he? Bennie has pals in high places, maybe not here in New York, maybe in Washington. Too many people got involved, Roy. The FBI, the Department of Justice, and the network of gossip spread. Plans here, authorizations there, meetings at high levels, more and more intelligence people in the loop. It was a mistake.”

“You had no choice.”

“My choices were limited. Looks like I made the wrong one.”

“What about the law firm?”

“I’m sure I’ll screw that up, too. What’s your advice? God knows I’m paying for it, if even at a discount.” Both managed smiles, but very brief ones.

Roy gulped his water, wiped his lips with a shirtsleeve, and leaned even closer. The two guards were still in the sitting room, within earshot. “You could say nothing. Just report tomorrow for duty and act like none of this happened. The files are safe. Nothing has been compromised. Look, Kyle, you never planned to hand over anything to Bennie. You were forced to download some stuff to facilitate his arrest. The arrest didn’t happen. The firm has no clue. Assuming there won’t be a prosecution, the firm will never know.”