“What did you do?”

“When I got myself together, I drove to the police station in Whitstable. The constable accompanied me back to the scene. There were tire marks—both cars—but there was nothing more to show them but a dent in my back fender.

“By nightfall I saw a headline: ‘Swallow This: Black Widow Blames Auto Accident on Mysterious Assassin!’”

“Did you see the driver of the black sedan?”

“No, like I said, the windows were dark-tinted and the license plate was muddied, probably on purpose.”

“What happened then?”

“Arliss called me back home after consulting with the British government. From their perspective, you see, I was either unstable or, worse, the focus of a plot they could not unravel. Either way, all parties sought to avoid a major international scandal. Arliss said she and the president believed me, of course, but it obviously wasn’t safe for me in England. I can’t tell you how glad I was to come home. I believed I would be safe here, since all the violence had happened in England, and it seemed to be tied to George.”

Davis nodded. “The son’s photo, the e-mail, then his death. Okay, tell me what happened back here in the States?”

“I’ve been home six days, conducting business by phone, or in meetings at the State Department, meanwhile dodging the press, following the papers here and in London, waiting for Arliss and the president to decide when it will be a political necessity for me to resign.” She sighed, told him about her run in Buckner Park at sunset, a beautiful time of day to run, her thinking time.

“So another attempted murder using a car as the weapon?”

“It was like England. For an instant, I thought it was all over for me, but then I managed to roll behind bushes against a tree in the nick of time. It was close. I could even smell the car exhaust.”

“What did the car look like?”

“Another big black sedan, and again, I couldn’t make out the license plate and the windows were tinted so I couldn’t see the driver or how many people were in the car. I know it can’t be the same car as in England, but it was probably the same person behind the wheel—to try to kill me with a car twice? Why the same play?”

“You called the cops?”

She shook her head. “Believe me, I thought about calling them, but I knew I couldn’t risk a police report getting into the press. I had no proof, and without that, another press leak might give the secretary of state and the president no choice. And what was there to find, anyway? Maybe evidence that a drunk might have lost control, got scared, and drove off as fast as he could?”

“So you hired Hooley.”

“Yes. Hooley is ex–Special Forces, and came well recommended. He wanted me to speak to the police, to the FBI, to the State Department, but as I said, I haven’t even told Arliss or Thorn—President Gilbert—no one except Hooley and Connie Mendez, a former Secret Service agent Hooley recommended. And now you.”

“Do you know our FBI director?”

“Yes, I’ve met him, but I don’t know him or his loyalties. Whereas you, Special Agent Sullivan, I saw what you’re made of, how you deal with surprise and danger. Don’t you see I had to decide who to turn to. I don’t know any other agents in the FBI, though I’ve heard of that exceptional boss of yours, Agent Savich. There’s no reason for any of them to believe me, not given what’s happened and what’s been reported. After yesterday, I thought perhaps you would.”

Davis didn’t hesitate. “I do believe you. But I want to bring my boss, Dillon Savich, to see you. I want you to tell him what you’ve told me. Believe me, Natalie, we’ll do everything to find out what’s going on. And there will be no press leak. Something else—Savich has a gift, like George McCallum. He seems to know things, sense things. Sometimes you don’t want to think about it because it’s scary, but you’re glad he’s on your side.”

She was quiet until she’d poured him another cup of the sinful coffee from a silver carafe. “Can you guarantee me that you’ll be directly involved?”

“You know I can’t, but I’ll try.”

“Davis, look. Your being there at that shopping mall at that particular moment—the way you dealt with Jitterbug—to me it was a sign.”

Now he was a sign? He said, “You weren’t at all afraid of Jitterbug, not for an instant.”

“Not after I realized he wasn’t one of them, that he was only a pathetic addict who needed to be punched in the head. Or elsewhere.”