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asked the first Marine I saw for help.”
    “And?”
    “He wasn’t with the others at the aid station. He gave me water. It tasted weird—sort of muddy or metallic—but I figured that was just me. That my levels were out of whack. I drank it anyway.”
    “All of it?”
    “All of it.”
    A faint sound, almost a whimper, from high in Price’s throat. George turned away from them. She asked for help and the bastard poisoned her.
    “What did he look like, Dana?”
    “Older,” she replied with effort. “Older than a Marine. In his thirties, maybe. White. Five foot ten. Bright blue eyes. Cammies. No music. A couple of water drums and a stack of bottles.”
    She paused to draw breath. Price reached for her hand and squeezed it.
    “I thanked him for the cup. . . . But I remember: He didn’t smile or wish me well. Which was odd. Everybody else did. I got my blood tested at the aid station, ate a banana and drank some juice, then ran the last few miles.”
    She began to pant, and with the automatic surge that had become horribly routine, George reached for a basin. Price watched as Dana retched out her guts in her husband’s hands; she vomited mostly blood.
    “I’m sorry, gentlemen,” said a nurse at the partition, “I’m going to have to ask you to step into the hall. Mrs. Enfield needs rest.”
    “You’ll tell them, Steve?” Dana whispered.
    He blew her a kiss. “Be strong. This is just another race, Dana girl. You’ll win it.”
    But once beyond her range of hearing he asked George, “What’ve these doctors told you?”
    “Squat, Steve. I don’t think they know what’s happening. I told them it could be ricin, and they asked me not to spread panic.”
    “It’s ricin.” He handed George a sheet of paper. “Read that. I’ve already shown the original to the FBI. It was some kind of terrorist hit. Nobody knows how many . . .”
    His voice trailed away, and he glanced over his shoulder toward Dana. “You should be with her, buddy.”
    “Tell me what you know. I’d rather hear the truth.”
    “She swallowed enough poison to kill her. If she can hold on a few more days . . . there’s a chance . . .”
    “Days,” George burst out. “How can anybody take this for days? And with her condition—”
    From the curtained gurney behind them came a strangled cry. Dana arched upward, convulsed with pain, her fingers scrabbling on air.
    “Nurse!” George shouted. “Nurse!”

Chapter 6
    ARLINGTON, 10:45 P.M.
    Caroline threw on her jeans and buttoned a blouse around the bandages on her shoulder and spent ten minutes tossing clothes into the suitcase she’d only recently unpacked from Europe. Thinking: An American cell. What did we miss? How did we miss it? Jesus, this is our fault— She kept the television on in her bedroom, without sound, reading the marquee scroll that sped across the bottom of the screen. More than four hundred people had checked into area hospitals. They don’t even know. No one’s told them yet. That they haven’t a chance of surviving. The word ricin had not yet been mentioned in public.
    Tom Shephard had left her unwillingly at the door.
    “Cuddy has my cell,” he’d said, one hand reaching for her good arm. “Call once you’re out of here, understand? I want to know where you are.”
    Caroline had stepped back from the raw emotion in his eyes, shoulder burning under her cotton blouse. She was not going to become Tom Shephard’s burden—another woman he had to save. She’d deceived him enough already. Tom had no idea her husband was alive.
    “We’ll be fine,” she managed. “You’ve got enough on your plate tonight.”
    He was due back at Bureau Headquarters, the J. Edgar Hoover Building at Ninth and G, where the director would be forced to notify the President and a press conference would have to be called. She didn’t envy Tom his decisions. Tell the world there’d been a ricin attack, and risk mass panic—even if the faxed letter was a hoax? Or be accused of