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neutral.
    “Sure,” Brixton said, “I know you can’t tell me. National security. No doubt. I’ll bet you’re taking him for interrogation, I’m right, aren’t I?” He tried to force more of himself through the open window. “How about taking me along? I just want to observe. I’ve heard so much about … You guys still waterboarding? That’s what I really want to see.”
    “Waterboarding is illegal,” Nona said.
    “Sure it is.” Brixton winked. “I know that, but hell, you’ve got a terrorist there. It’s a matter of national security to find out what’s inside his head. Secrets, right?”
    “I’m not at liberty to say—”
    “Sure, sure. I understand.”
    Nona stared up at him. “We’re on the clock. We need to pass.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” Brixton stepped smartly back. “Sergeant Robert J. Brixton, ma’am.” Maybe she’d remember him and put in a good word for him the next time he applied. But who was he kidding? He was never going to be a fed; he was doomed to remain a sergeant in the state police until the day he collected his pension.
    Like an idiot, he saluted her as the SUV rolled majestically through the aperture between the two cruisers, picking up speed as it headed toward the airport perimeter.
    *   *   *
    “That was close,” Jack said from beneath the hood, as Nona unlocked the manacles. “I owe you more than I can say.”
    Her eyes locked with his, and he saw the strength and determination there.
    “Just don’t make me look like a fool,” she said.
    “You have no worries there.”
    The SUV reached the chain-link fence surrounding the foreign trade zone. There were six warehouses, beyond which could be seen four runways outlined in blinking bluish-purple guide lights.
    “This is where we part company,” Nona said. “Metro has no jurisdiction out here. I have no believable excuse to enter the FTZ, and my presence will only call unwanted attention.” She handed him a slim packet. “Keep this safe, will you.”
    “Nona—”
    The form and quality of her smile stopped him. “I know what it’s like to lose a boss who was also your friend. The difference is I know who was responsible, and he’s dead.”
    As Jack opened the door, she added, “Jack, if you need me for anything, my private number is in the phonebook of the mobile I gave you. And don’t worry, the conversation will be encrypted. No one will eavesdrop; no one will know who you are or where you’re calling from.”
    He stepped out onto the pavement.
    “Godspeed, Jack,” she said just before slamming the door shut.
    He watched the SUV make its arc as it turned around, heading back to downtown D.C., then he turned and surveyed the immediate area, making his assessment. One of the advantages of being dyslexic was that he could assimilate an entire area with a single glance. Another, was that his brain worked a hundred times faster than those without his gift.
    Within the space of several heartbeats, he had the plan of Dulles Cargo securely memorized. Had he been Nona, he would have accessed the plan on his mobile via Google. But he would have been looking at two dimensions—he was far better at seeing in three.
    There was a great deal of activity on the other side of the fence, but none at all where he was. Five hundred yards to his left the gate into the FTZ was manned by an airport security officer, who this night was joined by a pair of suits, who were either FBI or CIA.
    Vehicles—trucks and vans of every sort and description—were driving in and out through the gate. The manifest of each truck entering was scrutinized, its cargo inspected to ensure it matched up. Jack moved back, away from the airport lights, toward the road that led up to it. A large van with an unusually tall profile slowed as it turned off the road to join the line of vehicles awaiting entry. As it passed through a shadowed area, Jack swung onto its rear bumper, hoisted himself to its roof, and immediately flattened