“From what we’ve been able to put together from duty rosters and memos confiscated during the raid, we can at least put him in the upper echelons. He’s a graduate of Matheson’s military academy, although he wasn’t much of a scholar.” Savard spoke quietly, but her tone suggested she was frustrated. Or angry. “We haven’t exactly had free access to information. We’ve been looking for this guy for a month, and finally tracked him down at the BOP in Virginia. Somehow, no one was quite sure where they’d put him.”

“That seems to be happening with persons of interest a lot these days,” Cam said grimly. She suspected that the DOD or the CIA, or both, were sequestering potential terrorists away from the other security agencies. The failure to predict 9/11 had not yet been laid at anyone’s door, and it was doubtful there was any single agency to blame. Nevertheless, no one wanted detainees giving up information that would point to their own agency as culpable. It was politics, and politics always derailed justice. “Does the prison director know why we’re coming?”

Savard gave a predatory smile. “No. We just informed him to expect the deputy director late this afternoon.”

“No reason for us to share if no one else does.” Cam studied the 4x4 color photograph reproduced on the first page of the file. The man was younger than she had anticipated, perhaps mid twenties, and she wasn’t certain why she was surprised. Most of her team members weren’t a lot older. He looked like a typical all-American boy grown up—blond, blue-eyed, fair complexion. But his mouth was thin and hard and his eyes held nothing but fury and contempt. “What does he do when he’s not playing soldier?”

“He’s a trucker.”

“Interstate?”

“Up and down the East Coast.”

“That’s convenient,” Cam said. “Is there any evidence that puts him in contact with the hijackers?”

Savard looked pained. “I wish I could answer that, Commander. But no one is giving us anything and all our requests for files have been ignored. It’s taken us weeks just to pinpoint this guy’s location. It’s like a shell game—find the detainee.”

“Felicia can’t dig up anything?” If there was information in any computer anywhere, Cam was convinced Felicia could find it, given enough time.

“She says no.”

Cam frowned. “Then someone has decided to shut us out.”

“It looks that way to us. Just the same, we’re working all of Early’s known associates and the truck routes he’s run for the last year. We might be able to put him with one of the hijackers, and if we do, that ties Matheson in as well.”

“Good,” Cam said neutrally. Building a case against Matheson that would stand up in a court of law was going to be difficult given the lack of access to intelligence, although her team would keep working to do just that. She knew what Matheson had done, and she knew that he would keep coming until he was stopped. Men like Matheson didn’t consider themselves bound by the law, which gave him the kind of freedom his victims didn’t enjoy. Cam valued and respected the need for order and the ascendancy of the common good, but in Matheson’s case those finer points of law were long past.

Her goal was simple, to find Matheson and stop him. Apprehending a lone fugitive, especially one with an extensive network of supporters and undoubtedly sizable funds, was a difficult undertaking. Matheson could move around the country easily with very little risk of detection unless he attempted to access bank accounts or return to his known previous locations. So far, he hadn’t done that. He’d had no reason to— his friends and colleagues in the patriot movement were sheltering him. She’d already talked with her FBI counterpart, and the surveillance of known patriot organizations had been stepped up. They might get lucky and catch Matheson meeting with one of the ringleaders. Fugitives had been apprehended more than once by some fluke—a traffic stop, being recognized by someone who’d seen their picture on America’s Most Wanted, an accident that forced them to seek medical care. Somehow, she didn’t think Matheson was going to be careless. Even though she doubted they would find him before he made another move, they would continue the hunt. In the meantime, she wasn’t going to take anything for granted, not even her own intuition.

Once Dana was alone in the apartment two floors below Blair Powell where she’d be staying for the next few days, she unpacked, which took all of five minutes, and then wandered through the impersonally furnished rooms thinking about the woman sequestered upstairs. Out of the spotlight, when Blair wasn’t performing some official function— and Dana had the sense that performing was exactly what Blair did under those circumstances—she was a fascinating woman. Reviews of the first daughter’s paintings by several well-known art critics indicated that art was not a hobby for her. Blair had real talent. Most artists shunned the spotlight, preferring to pour their energies into their creations. It must be a burden for Blair to be constantly thrust into the public eye. Add to that the fact that she was a lesbian and involved in a controversial relationship with a woman who was once responsible for her protection, and the tapestry became even more intriguing.

And she’s beautiful, Dana admitted to herself as she stood in front of the windows looking down on Gramercy Park. More than beautiful, really. Blair had that sensual spark that set everyone in the vicinity a little bit on fire. Dana grinned ruefully. She’d felt that pull of attraction the first time they’d met, and Cameron Roberts had picked up on it immediately. Nice, getting caught lusting after the first daughter in front of her lover. Great way to start an assignment.

Dana wasn’t really worried. She had lots of practice keeping her fly zipped. Spending half the year on the road, or most likely in places where there were no roads, wasn’t exactly conducive to having a love life. She’d discovered pretty quickly that the stress and uncertainty of danger tended to make people do things they wouldn’t ordinarily do. When you weren’t sure you’d wake up in the morning, you hated to waste a night, especially if you could spend it with someone else who was just as eager as you to feel alive. The good thing was, most of the time you did wake up the next day. Unfortunately, the night before would often come back to haunt you. After a few embarrassing and one painful experience, she’d decided love on the run didn’t have much to recommend it. She’d gotten used to going without, but occasionally she got blindsided. Happily, she was in the clear now. She only had to see Blair Powell and Cameron Roberts together for a few minutes to realize nothing and no one would come between them, not that she wanted to. But just witnessing the power of what they shared was enough to banish any lingering fantasies.

She turned from the window and surveyed the nicely appointed but completely sterile apartment and contemplated powering up her computer to investigate the players further. But now that she’d met Blair Powell and Cameron Roberts, she realized that nothing that had been written about them, or speculated about them, was going to tell her anything of real value. Since she was still at least forty-six hours behind in sleep, she stretched out on top of the bed in one of the bedrooms and closed her eyes.

When the knock came on her door, Dana woke instantly and checked her watch. Showtime.

“Be right there.” Briskly, she rubbed her face, made a quick stop in the bathroom to douse her face with cold water and chase the cobwebs from her head, and grabbed her leather flight jacket on her way to the door. A small, slim woman with straight jet-black hair and almond-shaped deep brown eyes wearing a well-cut navy suit greeted her when she stepped out into the hall.

“I’m Special Agent Hara,” the woman said.

“Dana Barnett,” Dana said, feeling foolish since she knew the agent knew her name. And likely everything else there was to know about her.

“If you’ll come with me, please.”

They rode down the elevator in silence and exited the lobby where an SUV stood idling at the curb. Stark stood by the open rear door, her body partially obscuring the interior as she scanned the street in both directions. A half dozen reporters and a couple of cameramen jostled to get a look into the car around the big blond whom Dana had last seen standing outside Blair’s apartment. He was effectively blocking the sidewalk between the crowd and the Suburban.

“Dana!” A woman’s voice rose above the general onslaught of shouts. “What are you doing with the first daughter’s detail? Are you dating her or is it business?”

Caught off guard, Dana half turned toward the gaggle of reporters and saw cameras raised in her direction. Other people shouted questions, most of which she didn’t catch in the general tumult of noise, but she did hear the phrases sleeping with, new lover, and where is Roberts? She also saw a society reporter for the Baltimore Herald with whom she’d once had a brief fling. They had been great in bed, but their professional ideologies had been so different they couldn’t carry on a conversation for more than five minutes. Looking quickly away, Dana ducked into the back seat behind Hara.

“Jesus,” Dana muttered. “Nice reception.”

“Welcome to my world.” Blair Powell, dressed in dark slacks, black boots, and a burgundy blouse beneath a long black leather duster, occupied the opposite seat. She’d pulled her hair back somehow, taming the thick curls, and Dana realized how different she looked with it worn this way. The wild earthy look had been replaced by cool sophisticate. Both looks were sexy.

Dana met Blair’s eyes. “Is that normal?”