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deceived by a forgery. Or you’ve been cutting corners, lying to me about your haberdashers.”
    Jerk.
    The tie was now torn halfway across its fat end. From the corner of his eye, Weber could see a crowd gathering below, pointing upward, distant shouts. He felt his head start to swim. Panic overwhelmed him.
    Jerk. Rip.
    “All right!” Weber screamed, scrabbling at Pendergast’s hand with his own broken and twisted fingers. “I’ll talk!”
    “Make it quick. This cheap tie isn’t going to last much longer.”
    “She’s, she’s leaving the country tonight.”
    “Where? How?”
    “Private plane. Fort Lauderdale. Pettermars Airport. Nine o’clock.”
    With a final, brutal tug, Pendergast pulled Weber back into his office.
    “
Scheiße!
” Weber cried as he sprawled across the floor, in a fetalposition, cradling his ruined hands. “What if my tie had torn completely?”
    The man’s smile simply widened. And suddenly Weber understood—this was a man as far on the edge as a person could be while remaining sane.
    Pendergast withdrew a step. “If you’re telling the truth, and I recover her without incident, you don’t have to worry about seeing me again. But if you have deceived me, I’ll pay you another visit.”
    In the act of turning toward the door, Pendergast stopped. He loosened his own necktie, unknotted it, threw it toward Weber. “Here’s the real thing. Remember what I said about cutting corners.” And with a final, cold smile, he slipped out of the office.



+ Forty-Five Hours
    P ETTERMARS AIRPORT. PENDERGAST HAD JUST UNDER SIX hours to go seven hundred miles.
    A quick check of the local airports showed no feasible commercial flights and no chartered planes available on such short notice. He would have to make the trip by car.
    He had flown into Atlanta and taken a cab from the airport. He would need to rent a vehicle. Locating a specialty rental agency a few blocks down Peachtree, he selected a brand-new storm-red Mercedes-Benz SLS AMG. He contracted for a one-way trip to Miami, with full insurance coverage, at a staggering price.
    Even though rush hour had not yet begun, the notorious Atlanta traffic was already choking the freeway interchanges. Merging onto I-75 south, Pendergast quickly pressed the accelerator to the floor, passing through a construction zone at high speed by sticking to the right-hand shoulder. As he had hoped, the ear-shattering roar of the Mercedes’s ferocious 563-horse engine attracted attention and helped clear the way for him. He blasted along the shoulder at close to a hundred miles an hour until he passed a speed trap.
    Excellent.
    A Georgia state trooper came shooting out from behind an embankment, sirens wailing and lightbar flashing. Pendergast pulled over so fast the cop almost rear-ended him. Even before the trooper could call in the license plate, Pendergast was out of the car with his shield held high, striding toward the trooper’s vehicle and motioning with his hand to lower his window.
    Reaching the vehicle, Pendergast pushed his shield inside.“Federal Bureau of Investigation, New York office. I’m on an emergency mission of the highest priority.”
    The trooper looked from Pendergast, to the shield, to the Mercedes, and back again. “Um, yes, sir.”
    “I had to improvise the car. Listen to me carefully. I’m on my way to Pettermars Airport, outside Fort Lauderdale, by way of Interstates Seventy-Five, Ten, and Ninety-Five.”
    The state trooper stared at him, struggling to keep up.
    “I want you to radio ahead and authorize my rapid and unrestricted passage along this route. No stops. And no escorts—I’ll be traveling too fast. My vehicle is somewhat recognizable, so this should not be a problem. Understand?”
    “Yes, sir. But our jurisdiction ends once you leave Georgia.”
    “Have your commanding major call his counterpart in Florida.”
    “But perhaps the FBI’s New York office—”
    “As I said, this is an emergency situation.