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morning newspaper, into the trash bin. Had anyone been watching, they would have assumed he was simply being a good citizen.
    If the FBI was going to arrest him, now would be the time. But no cars came shooting forward to pin in his sedan and block his escape. No badge-flashing agents came darting from the B & B. Nothing. He climbed behind the wheel of his car and drove away.
    About ten minutes later, he pulled into a shopping mall’s crowded lot and parked. He removed his laptop from his briefcase and inserted a thumb drive. The drive had been taped to the bottom of the crumpled McDonald’s bag that had been discarded at the base of the B & B dumpster. He had discreetly palmed it when depositing the bag and his newspaper into the trash container.
    He typed a series of passwords, unlocking the device.
    A photograph of an attractive black woman appeared on his computer screen. U.S. Marine major Brooke Grant. A series of subsequent photos showed her with a white teenage girl, identified as Jennifer Conner.
    The thumb drive contained maps and more detailed information about them. He studied the drive’s contents before deleting the files. Stepping from his car, he walked to the back of the Ford, where he bent down to inspect one of its rear tires. He ran his hand over its tread, as if he were checking it for nails, and while doing so, slipped the thumb drive between the tire and pavement. Returning to the driver’s seat, he put the transmission into reverse and backed over the thumb drive, crushing it.
    A loud blast from a car horn caused him to jam on the brakes. He’d not noticed a white Lexus SUV speeding toward him. The woman driver jabbed a finger at his parking spot, indicating that she wanted to take it. He waved apologetically and drove toward the lot’s exit.
    â€œDid you notice the plates on that car?” the woman passenger in the Lexus asked her friend. “That’s a government-owned car. He’s a federal worker. What’s he doing shopping in a mall when he’s supposed to be working?”
    â€œWe should’ve written down that license plate and called his boss,” the driver replied.
    Neither of them noticed the smashed thumb drive on the pavement as they walked from the Lexus toward the mall.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Tacoma Park
    Northwest Washington, D.C.
    H appy birthday, husband!” Dheeh Adeogo beamed.
    U.S. Representative Nuruddin Ayaanie “Rudy” Adeogo had forgotten it was his forty-first birthday. On the morning after President Allworth was attacked, the freshman congressman’s mind was focused on other matters. He’d been “invited” to hold a news briefing inside Studio A at the Capitol Visitor Center, a 580,000-square-foot underground complex built below the East Front grounds of the U.S. Capitol.
    Members of Congress could not hold a press conference in Studio A unless an accredited member of the Radio-Television Correspondents Gallery formally invited them, although there were exceptions. There were always exceptions, Adeogo had discovered since moving to Washington three months ago. The vice president and the Senate and House leadership could show up at Studio A anytime to address the media, but a run-of-the-mill member of Congress couldn’t set foot inside the dark-blue-carpeted studio with its rich wood backdrop, podium bearing the official U.S. seal, and seats for dozens of reporters, without being formally invited. This by-invitation-only rule was in place to stop politicians from conducting self-serving news conferences that no one would attend.
    That was not the case today with Rudy Adeogo.
    Every reporter in Washington wanted to interview him. The failed assassins who’d attempted to kill the president were from Adeogo’s Fifth Congressional District in Minneapolis. Fawzia and Cumar Samatar were Somali Americans and Adeogo was the first Somali American elected to Congress. He was also its only practicing