LITMIR.BIZ

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been asked to do, all the desensitizing and reprogramming or whatever it’s called. Time for you all to stop walking on eggshells around me.”

      Rivera grunted. “Today isn’t a good day to tell me you’re just a regular deputy trying to do his job.”

      His chair squeaked again when he leaned back, bugging the hell out of Rob. Not a good sign, probably, that a noisy chair irritated him. “I want to get out of here, at least for a few days. Let the dust settle.”

      “Will you go down to Tennessee?”

      “The Hague.”

      Rivera stood and turned to his grime-encrusted window. “Christ, Dunnemore. You don’t make my life easy, do you?”

      Rob smiled. “Not my job, Chief. Less chance of anyone getting misquoted or harassed if I’m out of the country.”

      “So go to Ireland.”

      “Nick Janssen’s not in custody in Ireland. The DS agent who got tipped off about where to find him isn’t in Ireland.”

      “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

      Still in his plastic chair, Rob shrugged. “Sure, why not? I can check with our people in the Netherlands, see where things stand now that the Dutch have Janssen. A Dutch judge is considering our request to interview him. We don’t want anything slipping through the cracks.”

      Rivera shifted from the window and held up a hand. “I get your point. What says a Dunnemore showing up in Holland won’t fire up reporters there?”

      “Nothing. Janssen’s arrest is a public reminder of my family’s connections to President Poe. There’s not much I can do about that. But the media will be looking for me in New York, not The Hague.”

      “You want to do this thing?”

      “I can be on a flight out of Kennedy tonight.”

      “Listen, Rob, if this is personal—”

      “Of course it’s personal.” Rob stood, feeling the August heat even in the air-conditioned room. “Janssen put out word that he’d pay for a presidential pardon. He tried to get under my mother’s skin. Ultimately, he’s the one responsible for everything that happened in May—”

      “It was a bad time.”

      “Then there’s Charlene Brooker. The Dutch are charging Janssen with ordering her murder in Amsterdam last year. We’re all still scrambling to unravel his network.”

      “None of that is why you’re going to Holland.”

      Rob shrugged. “Maybe not.”

      “You want to know who gave that DS agent the tip.”

      “Don’t you?”

      Rivera pulled out his chair and plopped down with a loud, obnoxious groan of metal. “Hell.” He looked up at Rob. “Bring me back some Dutch gin.”

      “Mike—”

      “Just a little bottle. I don’t drink as much as I used to.”

      Rob knew he’d won. There was nothing to do now except figure out which flight to take, dig out his passport and pack.

      Four

      Maggie stared at her boss in disbelief. “Why me?”

      George Bremmerton regarded her with a reasonable measure of sympathy from the other side of her desk, but she knew he wasn’t about to change his mind. “Because he requested you.”

      “Why would Rob Dunnemore request me?”

      “Because you made the Janssen arrest happen.”

      “I got an e-mail tip and made a phone call. That was the extent of it.” She sat back in her chair. “I can’t get out of this?”

      “Not unless you find a way to get run over by a bus.”

      “Great,” Maggie said without enthusiasm. “You know Dunnemore’s a rich frat-boy type playing marshal until he decides to start living off his trust fund, don’t you?”

      Bremmerton almost smiled. He was in his late forties and one of the most respected regional security officers ever, a very serious-minded man who was nonetheless getting a kick out of her predicament. “I met his parents last winter. They’re not rich.”

      “Rich people never think they’re rich. And they’re friends with President Poe. They don’t need to be rich.”

      “Are you whining, Spencer?”

      She groaned. “Yes, I’m whining. How long is Dunnemore staying?”

      “Not my problem.”

      Which meant it was her problem. Maggie had seen pictures of Rob Dunnemore. He was fair and very good-looking, more rugged than she’d expected—or particularly wanted to admit at the moment, since she preferred to think of him in terms of stereotypes.

      People said he had gray eyes, but she hadn’t really noticed.

      “When’s he getting here?” she asked.

      “Half an hour.”

      “I like the big warning I get.”

      Bremmerton shrugged. “I just found out myself.”

      “You have his flight information?”

      He handed her a printout. “Don’t treat him like a VIP. He’s a federal agent. He’s here on business.”

      “Marshal business? Or President Poe business?”

      “Don’t go there, Maggie. Dunnemore’s main reason for being here is to see you. He’s not even being very subtle about it.”

      Since Bremmerton had more than two decades of foreign assignments behind him and she had three weeks, Maggie trusted his instincts. She was fortunate to be working with him. He’d gone to Nairobi in the aftermath of the American embassy bombing that had killed scores there. From all accounts, he’d been a steady presence amid tragedy and fear. It wasn’t a surprise to anyone who knew him or his reputation. No task within the realm of diplomatic security was too big or too small for him to tackle, which, along with his mix of competence and genuine decency, had earned him widespread respect and admiration. He also managed to have a relatively normal family life, with his speech-therapist wife with him in The Hague and two kids in college in the Midwest.

      Maggie had worked hard to gain George Bremmerton’s confidence in her three weeks at the embassy and didn’t take it for granted.

      If he wanted her to baby-sit President Poe’s marshal pal, that was what she’d do.

      “I guess I should get going,” she said.

      “His twin sister’s getting married in a few weeks to the marshal who got shot with him in Central Park.” Bremmerton shrugged at his own non sequitur. “It’ll give you something to talk about. She’s an archaeologist. Sarah.”

      “He’s going to want to talk about Nick Janssen.”

      

      Given the small size of the Netherlands, Schiphol was almost exclusively an international airport—a very busy one—but Maggie had no trouble finding Rob Dunnemore. She recognized him from all the pictures she’d seen of him since the Central Park attack.

      He was even more good-looking in person. Tall, very fit. Lightly tanned. He had on a dark suit that had come through the long flight virtually without wrinkles.

      His eyes were, indeed, gray.

      She introduced herself. “Can I carry something?”

      “No, thank you, I’ve got everything.”

      She’d expected more of a Southern accent. He had a small carry-on suitcase that she

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