Kill Alex Cross

where Zoe Coyle is right now?” Pilgrim asked.
    “No,” he said.
    “Do you know where Ethan Coyle is right now?”
    “ No! ”
    Every one of his answers got a nod from Agent Pilgrim. It was starting to add up.
    It’s not that polygraphs are foolproof. They’re a guide, and nothing more than that. But even so, we seemed to be heading toward an unwanted conclusion here. You could feel it in the room.
    George O’Shea wasn’t our guy. He didn’t have anything to do with the kidnapping.

THEY WERE JUST finishing up with the polygraph when I got an unexpected phone call. There weren’t many people who could have pulled me out of that room just then, but here was one of them.
    “Detective Cross, it’s Nina Friedman from the White House. Could you please hold for the First Lady?”
    Just like that — a direct call from Regina Coyle. Sure. Happens every day. Of course I could hold for the First Lady.
    I stepped out and into one of the empty interview rooms. Just as I was pulling the door closed behind me, Mrs. Coyle came on the line.
    “What can I do for you, ma’am?” I asked.
    “I’m wondering what you can tell me about this George O’Shea person,” she said.
    The question caught me off guard. I wasn’t completely surprised that she’d already gotten word on O’Shea, but still, this put me in a tight spot.
    “Excuse me for asking, Mrs. Coyle, but how much do you already know?” I said.
    “I know who he is. I know that he’s been arrested. And I know the reason why. What I’d like to know is what you think of him.”
    “I can tell you he just passed a polygraph test,” I told her. “But that’s not impossible to fake. I’ve seen it happen before.”
    “Yes, but what do you think , Alex? You’re my eyes and ears on this. I’m not looking for absolutes,” she said. “Just … anything to give us hope.”
    The more I knew Mrs. Coyle, the more I found myself relating to her, parent to parent. I probably said more than I should have.
    “I don’t think he knows where Ethan and Zoe are. I’m sorry.”
    “I see,” she said.
    There was a long, silent moment on the phone. I could hear people out in the hall, leaving the observation room. Presumably O’Shea would be transferred to the U.S. marshals’ custody and taken to the arraignment courts from here. Then over to the central cell block after that. The pornography charge alone would put him in jail.
    “Mrs. Coyle?” I said.
    “I’m still here.”
    “As long as I have you, I’d like to ask a question about the morning of the kidnapping. If it’s all right.”
    “Of course,” she said. I think any distraction from the disappointing news was welcome at this point.
    “Do you know if Zoe brought her phone to school that morning?” I asked.
    “Her phone?”
    “There’s been some talk among the kids about a texting incident last year. Involving Zoe. I just wondered if —”
    “Zoe doesn’t have a phone,” Mrs. Coyle said. “Not as far as I know. Even if Secret Service would allow it, her father and I wouldn’t. And believe me, we’ve had our battles about this one.”
    My mind started turning over everything I’d heard that day. Everything I’d learned about Ethan and Zoe from the beginning.
    “Is it possible she could have gotten a phone on her own? Something she kept secret?” I asked.
    “Of course. This is Zoe we’re talking about,” she said. “She knows how to get what she wants. Honestly, everyone likes to talk about how brilliant Ethan is, but if you ask me, my daughter’s the one with a future in politics.”
    I liked that word right now. Future . It was a good thing to keep in mind.
    “I trust you’re going to look into this,” Mrs. Coyle said.
    “Absolutely,” I told her. “I already am.”

AT ELEVEN FIFTEEN that Saturday night, Ned Mahoney and a handpicked team of HRT agents set out from the MPD Third District Heliport in an unmarked FBI van. Mahoney preferred to run his ops in daylight — ultimately at dawn. But this detail was what it was and it had to happen now.
    His order had come in to Quantico ninety minutes ago. The arrest plan described four suspects, all Saudi, holed up at a motel just south of Silver Spring, Maryland. Presumably they were Al Ayla, but there was nothing about that in the fax Mahoney had received.
    He rode shotgun and looked over the motel diagram as they drove north, at full speed, through the city.
    The motel room, number 122, was fairly straightforward: large bedroom,