by his attacker's panicky screams and a chorus of commands from undercover agents. One agent finally managed to pry Jack away from the wrestling match. It took three or four agents to bring the man under control.
"Don't move!" they told him.
"I didn't do nothing!" the man shouted back, and he started rattling off something in Spanish.
Another agent helped Jack to the bench, and it took him another moment to realize that it was Andie. She'd rushed over from the hidden command center on the mall.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Yeah, fine."
"You did great."
"If you say so."
Jack watched the team of agents lift the man to his feet. He was wearing an old navy peacoat, tattered blue jeans, and tennis shoes that didn't match. His hair was bundled up in a lumpy, matted mess beneath a knit cap. It was hard to tell when he'd last shaved and bathed, but it wasn't in the last week or probably even in the last month. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was no longer fighting back, but he wouldn't shut up.
"Muggles! Harry, I'm surrounded by muggles!"
He was talking to Harry Potter, Jack realized, not Harry Swyteck. The rant continued as the FBI took him away.
Jack looked at Andie, and she back at him. For a moment, it seemed like a standoff to see who would speak first. Finally, she broke the silence.
"Strange world out there, isn't it?"
"Stranger than it appears, muggle."
"What do you mean?"
Jack glanced toward the base of the stairs, where a pair of agents was struggling to stuff their suspect into the back of an FBI sedan.
"That accent," said Jack. "He's obviously Hispanic. The guy who spoke to me on the telephone had some kind of accent, but it was totally different."
"You're saying they're different people?"
Jack took another look. One of the agents was cursing and wiping his hands on the grass. The guy had apparently soiled his pants to make the job of law enforcement that much more unpleasant.
"I'd bet my life on it," said Jack.
A crime-scene photographer approached. A team of specialists had already cordoned off the entrance to the museum with police tape and was collecting evidence.
"Agent Henning," the photographer said. "Thought you might want to see this."
"What is it?" said Andie.
"We bagged and tagged the original evidence. This is a photo of what was inside the envelope he was carrying."
Jack didn't ask for permission to see it. He peered over Andie's shoulder and checked out the image on the digital camera's LCD display.
It was a photograph of a handwritten message.
I told you to come alone, it read.
Before Jack could say anything, Andie turned and ran down the steps. Jack followed. They caught up with the sedan just before it pulled away. She flung open the door.
"Who gave you this?"
The man's eyes were like saucers. "That's what I been trying to tell you! Some old man paid me fifty bucks, told me to walk up to the guy at the top of the steps and say, 'This is for you.' "
"What did he look like?"
"A muggle! He looked like a muggle!"
Andie told the driver, "Take him to headquarters. Set up for questioning."
The driver nodded. Andie closed the door, and the car pulled away.
"You believe him?" said Jack.
"I do," she said, as her gaze drifted toward the mall, as if she sensed that they were still being watched. "We just caught ourselves a decoy."
Chapter 12
It was almost midnight when Jack and Andie finally sat down for dinner with Harry Swyteck. The hotel's main dining room was closed, so they took a table in the bar, where the bartender and two lonely businessmen were watching the news on television. It was one of those dark, cherry-paneled rooms with coffered ceilings and red velvet draperies that made Jack think of nineteenth-century robber barons feasting on caviar and smoking cigars while trying to decide which congressman to buy next. As they settled into leather wing chairs, Harry seemed glad to be away from the constant hound of the media, and Jack was equally pleased
"Don't move!" they told him.
"I didn't do nothing!" the man shouted back, and he started rattling off something in Spanish.
Another agent helped Jack to the bench, and it took him another moment to realize that it was Andie. She'd rushed over from the hidden command center on the mall.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Yeah, fine."
"You did great."
"If you say so."
Jack watched the team of agents lift the man to his feet. He was wearing an old navy peacoat, tattered blue jeans, and tennis shoes that didn't match. His hair was bundled up in a lumpy, matted mess beneath a knit cap. It was hard to tell when he'd last shaved and bathed, but it wasn't in the last week or probably even in the last month. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was no longer fighting back, but he wouldn't shut up.
"Muggles! Harry, I'm surrounded by muggles!"
He was talking to Harry Potter, Jack realized, not Harry Swyteck. The rant continued as the FBI took him away.
Jack looked at Andie, and she back at him. For a moment, it seemed like a standoff to see who would speak first. Finally, she broke the silence.
"Strange world out there, isn't it?"
"Stranger than it appears, muggle."
"What do you mean?"
Jack glanced toward the base of the stairs, where a pair of agents was struggling to stuff their suspect into the back of an FBI sedan.
"That accent," said Jack. "He's obviously Hispanic. The guy who spoke to me on the telephone had some kind of accent, but it was totally different."
"You're saying they're different people?"
Jack took another look. One of the agents was cursing and wiping his hands on the grass. The guy had apparently soiled his pants to make the job of law enforcement that much more unpleasant.
"I'd bet my life on it," said Jack.
A crime-scene photographer approached. A team of specialists had already cordoned off the entrance to the museum with police tape and was collecting evidence.
"Agent Henning," the photographer said. "Thought you might want to see this."
"What is it?" said Andie.
"We bagged and tagged the original evidence. This is a photo of what was inside the envelope he was carrying."
Jack didn't ask for permission to see it. He peered over Andie's shoulder and checked out the image on the digital camera's LCD display.
It was a photograph of a handwritten message.
I told you to come alone, it read.
Before Jack could say anything, Andie turned and ran down the steps. Jack followed. They caught up with the sedan just before it pulled away. She flung open the door.
"Who gave you this?"
The man's eyes were like saucers. "That's what I been trying to tell you! Some old man paid me fifty bucks, told me to walk up to the guy at the top of the steps and say, 'This is for you.' "
"What did he look like?"
"A muggle! He looked like a muggle!"
Andie told the driver, "Take him to headquarters. Set up for questioning."
The driver nodded. Andie closed the door, and the car pulled away.
"You believe him?" said Jack.
"I do," she said, as her gaze drifted toward the mall, as if she sensed that they were still being watched. "We just caught ourselves a decoy."
Chapter 12
It was almost midnight when Jack and Andie finally sat down for dinner with Harry Swyteck. The hotel's main dining room was closed, so they took a table in the bar, where the bartender and two lonely businessmen were watching the news on television. It was one of those dark, cherry-paneled rooms with coffered ceilings and red velvet draperies that made Jack think of nineteenth-century robber barons feasting on caviar and smoking cigars while trying to decide which congressman to buy next. As they settled into leather wing chairs, Harry seemed glad to be away from the constant hound of the media, and Jack was equally pleased
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