No, he thought, you were the lucky one. “You guys got any ideas on how they found Nasim?”

Pip Erwin shook his head. “I don’t understand it. No one would break protocol and get us followed. I can’t imagine there’s a leak in the Counterterrorism Task Force.”

Cal looked at Sherlock. “You know, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think so. Remember Nasim kept repeating he was going to be killed, even though he was tucked away in a safe house? All he could talk about was that his life didn’t matter, just his family’s. Once he told me everything he knew, I think Nasim made it easy for them to shoot him. Did you notice the bathroom curtains were wide open? He did that to make an easy target of himself. He thought it was the only thing left for him to do that might let them live—that, and tell me everything. He figured he’d done everything he could to save them.”

Kelly said, “So you think the terrorists were still in control, that they’d convinced him he had to die, one way or the other, if his family was to live? But that leads to the question: How did they find him?”

Sherlock said, “I’m betting the ME will find a small wound hidden somewhere on Nasim’s body, maybe his armpit or inner thigh. He’ll find a low-power chip under the skin, a tracking chip. If I’m right, the terrorists have known where Nasim was every minute since he walked into JFK. With the chip, they could be sure he was walking into the security line and track him if he walked away.”

Cal looked at her like a proud papa. He said to no agent in particular, “She’s really good at this. I’ll bet you she’s right.”

Giusti said, “Whether you’re right or not, Sherlock, it still means we’ve been had. And not by some group of young men with box cutters or homemade bombs. These guys, whoever they are, who they represent, are stone-cold professionals.”

Giusti’s cell rang. She answered it, then hung up. “The paramedics took our shooter directly to the hospital. He’s going into surgery to remove the bullet from his shoulder.” She paused, pressed speed dial. “Time I spoke with Zachery.” And she walked out the front door.

Sherlock called after her, “When the ME gets here, Kelly, he needs to find and remove the chip and leave it here, otherwise the terrorists would know Nasim’s dead.”

D.C. JAIL

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Friday afternoon

The D.C. Jail was a grim spot in a beautiful landscape, Savich had always thought, at the end of D Street near the Congressional Cemetery, the Potomac at its back. Ten minutes after he’d showed his creds at the gate, he’d gotten permission from Warden Spooner to use the conference room. He was shown to a small utilitarian room with pea-green walls and institutional furniture where Walter Givens and his family had been seated around a large square table. Savich hadn’t wanted to speak to Walter Givens through bulletproof glass, and when he learned Walter’s family was visiting, he’d asked the warden that they all be moved.

Mr. Givens turned when Savich came into the stark room. He waved his arms around him. “I suppose we should thank you for this? Getting my boy out from behind that wall of glass with guards standing behind him?”

Savich introduced himself, showed his creds. “I thought this room would be better so all of us can speak together.”

Mrs. Givens waved her fist at him. “Our lawyer found out you hypnotized Brakey Alcott. So if you’re here to push hypnosis, Walter will not do it. I don’t care if you take us all to the Ritz-Carlton.”

“There’s no need to have Walter hypnotized,” Savich said. He motioned for Mr. Givens to be seated again. He was surprised to see a teenage girl in the room. It had to be Walter’s seventeen-year-old sister, Lisa Ann. He smiled at her.

“I don’t see what we have to talk about unless you’ve found out something,” Mr. Givens said. “Walter still doesn’t remember what happened with Sparky Carroll until that crowd of people tackled him in the hallway, told him he’d stabbed Sparky. We want to bring in doctors to have him tested, prove he had a seizure of some kind and was not responsible for Sparky’s death. Can you help us with that?”

Twenty-three-year-old Walter Givens looked pale after only two days behind bars. Worse, he looked leached of life, from the inside out. He was taking it hard. And why not? Two days ago, he’d killed his own friend, lost the thread of his life, and for all he knew, his own sanity.

Savich said, “We will conduct medical and psychiatric tests, and you will be allowed to arrange for your own. Your own attorney will arrange it. He won’t need my help. I want you all to know I also think Walter wasn’t responsible for Sparky Carroll’s death. I’m going to try to prove that.”