CLAY'S APARTMENT WAS in an aging complex in Arlington. When he'd leased it four years earlier he had never heard of BVH Group. Later, he would learn that the company had built the place in the early eighties in one of Bennett's first ventures. The venture went bankrupt, the complex got bought and sold several times, and none of Clay's rent went to Mr. Van Horn. In fact, no member of that family knew Clay was living in something they'd built. Not even Rebecca.

He shared a two-bedroom unit with Jonah, an old pal from law school who'd flunked the bar exam four times before passing it and now sold computers. He sold them part-time and still earned more money than Clay, a fact that was always just under the surface.

The morning after the breakup, Clay fetched the Post from outside his door and settled down at the kitchen table with the first cup of coffee. As always, he went straight to the financial page for a quick and rewarding perusal of the dismal performance of BVHG. The stock barely traded and the few misguided investors who owned it were now willing to unload it for a mere $0.75 a share.

Who was the loser here?

There was not a single word about Rebecca's crucial subcommittee hearings.

When he was finished with his little witch hunts, he went to the sports section and told himself it was time to forget the Van Horns. All of them.

At twenty minutes after seven, a time when he was usually eating a bowl of cereal, the phone rang. He smiled and thought, It's her. Back already.

No one else would call so early. No one except the boyfriend or husband of whatever lady might be upstairs sleeping off a hangover with Jonah. Clay had taken several such calls over the years. Jonah adored women, especially those already committed to someone else. They were more challenging, he said.

But it wasn't Rebecca and it wasn't a boyfriend or a husband.

"Mr. Clay Carter," a strange male voice said.

"Speaking."

"Mr. Carter, my name is Max Pace. I'm a recruiter for law firms in Washington and New York. Your name has caught our attention, and I have two very attractive positions that might interest you. Could we have lunch today?"

Completely speechless, Clay would remember later, in the shower, that the thought of a nice lunch was, oddly, the first thing that crossed his mind.

"Uh, sure," he managed to get out. Headhunters were part of the legal business, same as every other profession. But they rarely spent their time bottom-feeding in the Office of the Public Defender.

"Good. Let's meet in the lobby of the Willard Hotel, say, noon?"

"Noon's fine," Clay said, his eyes focusing on a pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Yes, this was real. It was not a dream.

"Thanks, I'll see you then. Mr. Carter, I promise it will be worth your time."

"Uh, sure."

Max Pace hung up quickly, and for a moment Clay held the receiver, looked at the dirty dishes, and wondered who from his law school class was behind this practical joke. Or could it be Bennett the Bulldozer getting one last bit of revenge?

He had no phone number for Max Pace. He did not even have the presence of mind to get the name of his company.

Nor did he have a clean suit. He owned two, both gray, one thick and one thin, both very old and well used. His trial wardrobe. Fortunately, OPD had no office dress code, so Clay usually wore khakis and a navy blazer. If he was going to court, he would put on a tie and take it off as soon as he returned to the office.

In the shower, he decided that his attire did not matter. Max Pace knew where he worked and had a rough idea of how little he earned. If Clay showed up for the interview in frayed khakis, then he could demand more money.

Sitting in traffic on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, he decided it was his father. The old guy had been banished from D.C. but still had contacts. He'd finally hit the right button, called in one last favor, found his son a decent job. When Jarrett Carter's high-profile legal career ended in a long and colorful flameout, he pushed his son toward the Office of the Public Defender. Now that apprenticeship was over. Five years in the trenches, and it was time for a real job.

What kinds of firms would be looking for him? He was intrigued by the mystery. His father hated the large corporate and lobbying outfits that were packed along Connecticut and Massachusetts Avenues. And he had no use for the small-timers who advertised on buses and billboards and clogged up the system with frivolous cases. Jarrett's old firm had ten lawyers, ten courtroom brawlers who won verdicts and were in demand.

"That's where I'm headed," Clay mumbled to himself as he glanced at the Potomac River beneath him.

AFTER SUFFERING THROUGH THE most unproductive morning of his career, Clay left at eleven-thirty and took his time driving to the Willard, now officially known as the Willard InterContinental Hotel. He was immediately met in the lobby by a muscled young man who looked vaguely familiar. "Mr. Pace is upstairs," he explained. "He'd like to meet with you up there, if that's all right." They were walking toward the elevators.

"Sure," Clay said. How he'd been recognized so easily he was not certain.

They ignored each other on the ride up. They stepped onto the ninth floor and Clay's escort knocked on the door of the Theodore Roosevelt Suite. It opened quickly and Max Pace said hello with a businesslike smile. He was in his mid-forties, dark wavy hair, dark mustache, dark everything. Black denim jeans, black T-shirt, black pointed-toe boots. Hollywood at the Willard. Not exactly the corporate look Clay had been expecting. As they shook hands he had the first hint that things were not what they seemed.

With a quick glance, the bodyguard was sent away.

"Thanks for coming," Max said as they walked into an oval-shaped room laden with marble.

"Sure." Clay was absorbing the suite; luxurious leathers and fabrics, rooms branching off in all directions. "Nice place."

"It's mine for a few more days. I thought we could eat up here, order some room service, that way we can talk with complete privacy."

"Fine with me." A question came to mind, the first of many. What was a Washington headhunter doing renting a horribly expensive hotel suite? Why didn't he have an office nearby? Did he really need a bodyguard?

"Anything in particular to eat?"

"I'm easy."

"They do a great capellini and salmon dish. I had it yesterday. Superb."

"I'll try it." At that moment Clay would have tried anything; he was starving.

Max went to the phone while Clay admired the view of Pennsylvania Avenue below. When lunch was ordered, they sat near the window and quickly got past the weather, the Orioles latest losing streak, and the lousy state of the economy. Pace was glib and seemed at ease talking about anything for as long as Clay wanted. He was a serious weight lifter who wanted folks to know it. His shirt stuck to his chest and arms and he liked to pick at his mustache. Whenever he did so, his biceps flexed and bulged.

A stuntman maybe, but not a headhunter in the big leagues. Ten minutes into the chatter, and Clay said, "These two firms, why don't you tell me a little about them?" "They don't exist," Max said. "I admit I lied to you.

And I promise it's the only time I will ever lie to you." "You're not a headhunter, are you?" "No." "Then what?" "I'm a fireman." "Thanks, that really clears things up." "Let me talk for a moment. I have some explaining to

do, and when I'm finished I promise you'll be pleased." "I suggest you talk real fast, Max, or I'm outta here." "Relax, Mr. Carter. Can I call you Clay?" "Not yet." "Very well. I'm an agent, a contractor, a freelancer

with a specialty. I get hired by big companies to put out fires. They screw up, they realize their mistakes before the lawyers do, so they hire me to quietly enter the picture, tidy up their mess, and, hopefully, save them a bunch of money. My services are in great demand. My name may be Max Pace and it may be something else. It doesn't matter. Who I am and where I come from are irrelevant. What's important here is that I have been hired by a large company to put out a fire. Questions?"

"Too numerous to ask right now."

"Hang on. I cannot tell you the name of my client now, perhaps never. If we reach an agreement, then I can tell you much more.

Here's the story: My client is a multinational that manufactures pharmaceuticals. You'll recognize the name. It makes a wide range of products, from common household remedies that are in your medicine cabinet right now to complex drugs that will fight cancer and obesity. An old, established blue-chip company with a stellar reputation. About two years ago, it came up with a drug that might cure addiction to opium- and cocaine-based narcotics. Much more advanced than methadone, which, though it helps many addicts, is addictive itself and is widely abused. Let's call this wonder drug Tarvan—that was its nickname for a while. It was discovered by mistake and was quickly used on every laboratory animal available. The results were outstanding, but then it's hard to duplicate crack addiction in a bunch of rats."

"They needed humans," Clay said.

Pace picked his mustache as his biceps rippled. "Yes. The potential for Tarvan was enough to keep the big suits awake at night. Imagine, take one pill a day for ninety days and you're clean. Your craving for the drugs is gone. You've kicked cocaine, heroin, crack—just like that. After you're clean, take a Tarvan every other day and you're free for life. Almost an instant cure, for millions of addicts. Think of the profits—charge whatever you want for the drug because somebody somewhere will gladly pay for it. Think of the lives to be saved, the crimes that would not be committed, the families held together, the billions not spent trying to rehab addicts. The more the suits thought about how great Tarvan could be, the faster they wanted it on the market. But, as you say, they st............