Michael Palmer - The First Patient

His study of the materials borrowed from Jim Ferendelli's library had disclosed a number of images of equipment nearly identical to the apparatus in Room B-10. The instrument was, he felt certain, a scanning tunneling microscope, capable of mapping the surface of materials atom by atom. It was this instrument, more than any other, that was elemental in the design and construction of nano-scale systems. It had become, in essence, the basis of the entire field of nanotechnology.

Lester , how're you doing?"

Grateful for her hands-off headset, Alison worked the wrapper off a stick of Trident and slipped it into her mouth to join the two sticks already there. From the moment she spotted Treat Griswold heading for his car, she knew this was going to be a three-stick operation. Three at least.

"I'm just passing Dale City," Lester said. "Is he out yet?"

"He's out. Just getting into his car. Lester, listen, are you sure you want to go through with this?"

She already knew the answer. Everything about the man said that the greater the challenge, the more he welcomed it. He was slightly built, with bright dark eyes that suggested he was up to something even when he was just sitting still. After connecting with him by the Lincoln Memorial, Alison had treated him to some coffee from a kiosk and found a bench where they could talk. The deal to move ahead was consummated after just a few minutes.

Lester had told her not to worry about his last name, only the three-hundred-dollar fee they had agreed upon-this after she had offered him five hundred. He was a busker, he said-a street performer with simple tastes. Nothing more, nothing less. Alison strongly sensed there was much more to the man, but he admitted only to being an entertainer, who did contract work from time to time for the FBI to keep his juices flowing.

"Why would I not want to go through with it?" he said now.

Alison waited until two cars had inserted themselves between her and Griswold's Jeep, and then eased into the flow.

"Lester, this is not any normal man. He's built like a small ox, he's trained to kill, and he's armed. I know you're the one who's putting himself in harm's way, but I'm getting cold feet."

"In that case," Lester said, "let's make it three twenty-five."

"Okay, okay, three twenty-five it is. Well, traffic's not bad. We're almost out of the city. As soon as our man passes the exit to his place up here, we'll know he's headed to Fredericksburg. You dressed appropriately?"

"Just like you wanted. Plus a little Jack Daniel's cologne to heighten the effect. I know a good idea when I hear one. This is going to work, Alison. Piece of cake."

"Lester, who are you?"

She could almost see him grinning.

"Like I told you in the park, just someone who needs a little danger and excitement in his life every now and then, and who owes your friend Seth a favor-make that a couple of favors. He said you were the real deal and wouldn't be setting this up if it weren't important. That's all I have to know."

"Your call."

"Now we're talking."

"In that case, I would think Seth's glowing recommendation would qualify me to learn how you did that thing with the Tic Tacs."

"A Congressional Medal of Honor wouldn't qualify you for that one. How's it going with our man?"

"We're coming to the exit he'd be taking to his house up here… and… and… he's driven past it. We're on, my friend."

"Okay. I have the Fredericksburg street map spread out right here. I'm going to find a safe place to leave this jalopy of mine not too far from the garage. Then I'll walk over there and practice looking like I'm picking the lock until he gets there."

"The right-hand door. He's not as likely to take you apart for trying to open that one rather than the one with the Porsche behind it. Just don't get busted by any of the local police. I'll call and let you know when he's getting off of Ninety-five."

"Good enough. But then I'm going to leave my cell phone under the seat. You just relax and have a Tic Tac."

Despite the gum. Alison's mouth seemed dry as she followed the Jeep from three car-lengths behind. Traffic was perfect-not too dense, not too light. As they approached the Dumfries exit, Griswold suddenly broke with the pattern Alison had anticipated he would be following. At the last possible moment, he whipped the Jeep to the right and down the exit ramp. She could almost see him scanning the rearview mirror for any sudden movement from any of the cars behind him. If she duplicated his move, she would be giving herself away. Helpless, she tapped the brake once and continued down the highway as she dialed Lester's number to warn him something was wrong and they should consider backing off and trying another time.

There was no answer.

With a dreadful sinking in her gut, she accelerated and pulled out into the passing lane.

Treat Griswold had no idea why he suddenly turned off at the Dumfries exit except that he had been feeling edgy since an unknown, exotic-looking woman with light copper skin had struck up a conversation with Constanza and Beatriz in the manicure parlor. They had strict instructions to avoid prolonged conversations with anyone and to report any unusual contacts to him. This they had done.

He swung onto the exit ramp too rapidly and felt the Jeep's center of gravity lurch to the right. But even though the years had been somewhat unkind when it came to the muffin top overlapping his belt, his coolness in crisis and his reflexes were as sharp as ever. There was no rollover, and from all he could tell through the rearview mirror, there was no one following him, either.

He was a little paranoid, he told himself. That's all. Just a little paranoid… not that he didn't have every reason to be.

Whoever had tailed him last year-a hell of a thorough private eye, he guessed, or maybe someone from one of the other agencies-had mapped out his secret Richmond life in agonizing detail, complete with photos and video. The night the phone rang for him at the Beechtree Road house, the man on the other end had his ducks in an absolutely perfect row.

There was to be no debate, no arguing, no denying, no protesting, the voice said. Griswold was to go along with what was being demanded of him or he would be finished-exposed, suspended from his job in the Secret Service, and, in all likelihood, prosecuted. On the other hand, if he did as he was told, there would be more than enough cash to ensure that in a few years, when Beatriz had grown old and tiresome, he would have the resources to recruit and develop her replacement.

Griswold maneuvered the Jeep through back roads he knew well and rejoined I-95 at Garrisonville.

A little paranoid, that was all.

The lab had promised him a report on the prints retrieved from the Marooned on a Desert Isle nail-polish bottle as soon as today. Suzanne… child care… Fredericksburg… That was the information he had to work with. He had already begun a discreet inquiry into the woman, but as yet, none of his sources had come through with anyone who fit the description. They would, though, he assured himself. If she was for real, they would.

In all likelihood, though, he was making mountains out of molehills. Nothing more than that.

Griswold settled back and relaxed with vivid images of what his evening with Beatriz held in store. She was a quick learner, and easy as hell to program with the use of selected drugs, CIA brainwashing techniques, and, of course, Constanza. Another six months and the girl would be providing him with the most sensual, devoted, custom-made companionship imaginable. In fact, in many ways, she already was.

A final glance in the mirrors suggested nothing out of the ordinary. Griswold slipped in a Grateful Dead CD and dialed up "Truckin'," his all-time favorite cut. By the time the song was done, he was nearing the garage. He licked his lips at the prospect of getting behind the wheel of the Porsche again. The Jeep was serviceable and predictable, but the Porsche was… well, Beatriz.