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with Tucker, who had been tracking terrorist financing based on a tip the old man had given him just before he was killed.
    He dialed the CIA man.
    As soon as he heard Ryder’s voice, Tucker demanded, “What took you so long to get back to me?”
    He found himself smiling at Tucker’s cantankerousness. “I don’t work for you anymore, remember?”
    “We both know you should. Are you home now?”
    “I am. You haven’t been up to your old tricks, have you, Tucker?”
    “What in hell are you talking about?”
    “I’ve been doubled,” Ryder told him. “It’s a professional job. Did you order it?”
    “If I were going to double you”—Tucker’s voice had an edge—“I would’ve told you.”
    Ryder nodded to himself. Then he again related the story of the imposter and the snowmobiler. “The double was wearing clothes I’d expected to pick up at my dry cleaner today, and he was carrying duplicates of my ID. He was killed at the time I would’ve ordinarily walked to the grocery store. He was following my routine.”
    “Who wants you dead?”
    “Let me count the ways.” He sighed. “I searched my row house but couldn’t find anything about who the double was or why I got chosen. He was carrying a cell. It’s disposable, but he called Eva—”
    “You’ve warned her?” Tucker interrupted.
    “Sure. He phoned her land line but didn’t leave a message. I need a favor. First, there were three other numbers on the cell. Would you get them checked?”
    Tucker agreed, and Ryder related the numbers.
    “Second,” Ryder continued, “I’m hoping the police and medical examiner don’t realize the dead guy is my double, at least not right away. I’d like at least a week to stay under the radar while I try to figure out whose cross-hairs I’ve landed in.”
    Once the news was released, the media would home in like heat-seeking missiles. The District medical examiner had in his icebox a cadaver that not only carried the ID of a former member of U.S. Army intelligence, but also had been made to look like him right down to the color of his eyelashes. Photos of Ryder would be plastered on TV and Internet screens around the globe.
    “I understand,” Tucker told him. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    “Thanks. Your turn. Why did you want to talk to me?”
    “Your trip to Iraq. The situation there is deteriorating again. We’re worried something new is in the wind, some big operation, maybe devastating to us and the region. I’d like to know what you saw and heard. Whom you met—and trust.”
    “Sure, but let’s have that conversation later. I’m on my way to Eva’s place.”
    “Right.” The line went dead.

 
    8
    His heavy wool overcoat buttoned up to his chin, Tucker Andersen wove among the pedestrians in Chinatown. It was lunchtime, and the sidewalks teemed with office workers. Tucker sniffed, smelling Mexican, Greek, and Italian food. Like much of life, Chinatown was not what it used to be. A lifelong jogger, he walked lightly. He was five feet ten inches tall, fifty-three years old, and slender. All that was left of his once thick hair was a gray fringe touching the back of his collar, so to ward off the cold, he wore a burgundy beret. Tortoiseshell-rimmed eyeglasses accented his face, a Grand Canyon of lines. His mustache was brown and his beard gray, short, and, as usual, in need of a trim. He looked ordinary and blended easily, and to him that was what “style” was all about.
    As he put away his secure handheld, he wondered why Judd Ryder had been doubled. He had plans for Judd, and they did not include early death. Besides, Tucker liked him, and he did not like many people. He had just made a couple of calls on his behalf. Now it was time to refocus on the covert business at hand.
    Tucker was tailing the Padre, a bulky man who was decked out in his signature disguise—black brimmed hat set square on his head, long black cashmere overcoat, black wool suit, and white collar. With his benign