Sweat

are out of the way, get this car moving.”

With the French entourage tearing down the street, the police cruiser on intersection duty pulled away as quickly as it had appeared. Traffic moved forward toward the now red light and Nguyen tried to pass on the right.

“Do we hit the sirens?” Nguyen asked, adrenaline pumping.

Before Wallace could answer, Regina was back on the phone.

“Detective Wallace?”

“Yes, Regina.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Talk to me, Regina,” he said, his voice rising.

“The car with the license plate you gave me is not scheduled to be on the road today. It should be in the maintenance lot in Rockville, Maryland. Time for the car’s sixty thousand mile servicing.”

“Can you call someone at the service lot and confirm the car is where it is supposed to be?”

“I did. No one is answering the phone.”

“I’m going to give you my number. Let me know when you reach them.”

Chow Ying hit a string of green lights and by the time Wallace hung up the phone with Regina, the trailing unmarked car was a mile away. As the for-hire approached the Capitol Building and the government offices that surrounded the jewel of D.C., the black sedan was as inconspicuous as a yellow cab in Manhattan.

“What do we do?” Nguyen asked, panicking. “I think we lost him.”

Wallace looked around like his head was on a swivel. There were three black for-hire sedans within a hundred yards, two of them heading in the opposite direction and another pulled over to the curb, a short Hispanic driver unloading his passenger.

“Goddamnit,” he said, picking up the radio. “This is Detective Wallace. I need to issue a BOLO on a black for-hire sedan, last seen in District one, heading south.”

Wallace panted his way through the car’s tag number and the dispatcher echoed the letters and numbers. “Charlie, Papa, Four…”

Wallace finished his command to police dispatch. “Do not approach or stop this vehicle. I need the location reported back to me ASAP.”

Wallace threw the radio handset at the dash, cursed a string of vulgarities that would make a Hell’s Angel member proud, and then reached over with his hand to hit the siren. The short blast of chirps and screams from the car was enough to clear a path through the intersection.

“Now let’s find this fucking guy.”

Chapter 45

A block from the Capitol and three hundred yards from Union Station and the train tracks that marked the beginning of the neglected northeast side of the city, the Russell Senate Building was the smallest legislation- making structure on The Hill. Erected in 1909, the Russell building had witnessed its share of historical moments— from the investigation into the sinking of the Titanic, to the Watergate hearing, to the Teapot Dome investigation that resulted in the country’s first senator-turned-convict.

The Senate Special Committee on Overseas Labor met on the first floor of the Russell Senate Building. As a special committee, and thus temporary in nature, Overseas Labor didn’t have its own chamber. Senator Day and the rest of the Overseas Labor Specialists were forced to share use of the Foreign Relations Committee’s vestibule—a picturesque legislative room adorned with grand traditional ornamentation that was duplicated in fifty similar chambers around Capitol Hill. A wood-paneled wall climbed three stories to the ceiling above, creating an impressive backdrop for the committee chairman and his cronies to flex their legislative muscles.

The conclusion of a committee hearing was showtime for the senators involved. Final comments ranged from passionate to downright emotional. Every senator thrived on knowing they would have a chance to speak and, God willing, influence the law. At the very least, they would show their specialization of the topic at hand, self-defined brilliance gleaned from reading a few excerpts of investigations and research done by others. The glamorous lunches prepared for the final day of committee testimony did as much as anything to pack the house. After months of investigation and testimony, the committee’s recommendation to the Senate was the final word before the feast and backslapping.

At eight-thirty, the chamber doors opened. The fruit plates brimmed in a colorful display of berries and melons, next to large trays of muffins mixed with a variety of pastries. Coffee, regular and decaf, served in real china, held its position on a smaller table next to the cream and sugar. Food for the kings while the commoners, who paid for it all, lined up at Starbucks.

The press filed in first, a half-dozen reporters representing an equal number of papers that included The Post and the Reverend Moon-owned Washington Times. The reporters were young, still-hungry new-hires who were blown off bigger stories and took whatever assignment came down the pike. They prepared their position in the unofficial press section, the first row on the right-hand side of the committee chamber. Notebooks were already pulled, pens in hand. Hand-held recorders were checked and double-checked. A three-person camera crew from C-SPAN set up their tripod and microphone on the opposite side of the room. It was standard operating procedure. Every committee meeting was filmed, every word transcribed, every opinion saved as a small piece of history. A warehouse in Silver Spring now held thousands of videos and boxes of verbatim transcripts and, with senators showing no signs of embracing brevity, they would be looking for a larger storage facility before the next presidential election.

At five before nine, the twelve senators on the Overseas Labor Committee strolled in, shaking hands, waving, winking. Lobbyists and lawyers, wearing suits from the same shelves of the same stores in Georgetown, filled half of the one hundred seats in the chamber. Those who were on the final list to testify had seating preference at the long table directly in front of the committee. Behind them, the first row was shoulder-to-shoulder with CEOs, human rights activists, PhDs from think tanks and universities that dotted the city. It was a who’s who on International Labor, a list developed and edited ten times over, depending on who was taking what legal bribe.

Senator Day found his throne in the middle of the raised row of chairs. From their perch five feet in the air, the committee members had an indisputable psychological advantage. Physically looking down on witnesses as they testified gave the committee power. It didn’t matter if those testifying had PhDs from Harvard or Yale. Everyone who wasn’t a senator on the committee was a pissant. Their speeches would be heard, their testimony noted. And then the senators would mold legislation as they saw fit. Senator Day looked over at Senators Wooten, Thomas, and Grumman. In turn, all three senators returned the chairman’s glance and silently acknowledged their prescribed agreement.

At precisely nine o’clock Senator Day reached to his right, raised his hand, and lowered the gavel with an authoritative bang. ***

Minutes after the siren parade in his rearview mirror, Chow Ying took two laps around the four-lane circle in front of Union Station to be sure he wasn’t followed. On his third pass, Chow Ying slowed his car and pulled over in the pick-up lane among a mixture of taxis and similar black sedans. He reached for the envelope from beneath the seat and dumped it upside down on the passenger seat next to him. With his right hand he spread out the contents of the envelope, picking up the chauffeur license with his own picture and a phony name. The DMV-authorized license was beyond legal reproach, complete with the requisite holographic security image and magnetic strip. He read the forged company paperwork for the car he was driving, fondled a Senate-issued VIP parking permit, and glanced at the bonded-paper sign with “Senator Day” printed on it with a quality laser printer. He put the chauffeur license in his shirt pocket and picked up the lone remaining gift from C.F Chang, a piece of white office paper. He read the detailed instructions, an elaboration of the ones he had received on the phone. The instructions were neatly typed, without a single spelling error. Trust wasn’t C.F Chang’s strong suit.

Senate Special Committee Hearing on Overseas Labor. Thursday July 18th. The Russell Senate Building. Peter Winthrop is scheduled to testify. Senator Day will also be present. Avoid being seen. Peter Winthrop has a reservation with his chauffeur company, a car will be waiting for him in the parking lot. A Senate parking permit and valid chauffeur license is needed to enter the lot. The Capitol Police may sweep the car for explosives. A body