WITH RIDLEY IN BED beside him, Clay spent the night dreaming of Rebecca. He slept off and on, always waking up with a goofy smile on his face. All smiles vanished, though, when the phone rang just after 5 A.M. He answered it in the bedroom, then switched to a phone in his study.

It was Mel Snelling, a college roommate, now a physician in Baltimore. "We gotta talk, pal," he said. "It's urgent."

"All right," Clay said, his knees buckling.

"Ten A.M., in front of the Lincoln Memorial."

"I can do that."

"And there's a good chance someone will be following me," he said, then his line went dead. Dr. Snelling had reviewed the stolen Dyloft research for Clay, as a favor. Now the Feds had found him.

For the first time, Clay had the wild thought of just simply running. Wire what was left of the money to some banana republic, skip town, grow a beard, disappear. And, of course, take Rebecca with him.

Her mother would find them before the Feds.

He made coffee and took a long shower. He dressed in jeans, and would have said good-bye to Ridley but she hadn't moved.

There was a very good chance Mel would be wired.

Since the FBI had found him, they would try their customary bag of dirty tricks. They would threaten to indict him too if he refused to snitch on his friend. They would harass him with visits, phone calls, surveillance. They would pressure him to put on a wire and lay the trap for Clay.

Zack Battle was out of town, so Clay was on his own. He arrived at the Lincoln Memorial at nine-twenty and mixed with the few tourists who were there. A few minutes later, Mel appeared, which immediately struck Clay as odd. Why would he get there half an hour before their meeting? Was the ambush being organized? Were Agents Spooner and Lohse close by with mikes and cameras and guns? One look at Mel's face and Clay knew that the news was bad.

They shook hands, said their hellos, tried to be cordial. Clay suspected that every word was being recorded. It was early September, the air chilly but not cold; Mel, however, was bundled up as if snow was expected. There could be cameras under all that garb. "Let's go for a walk," Clay said, sort of pointing down The Mall toward the Washington Monument.

"Sure," Mel said, shrugging. He didn't care. Obviously, no trap had been planned near Mr. Lincoln.

"Did they follow you?" Clay asked.

"I don't think so. I flew from Baltimore to Pittsburgh, Pittsburgh to Reagan National, grabbed a cab. I don't think anybody's behind me."

"Is it Spooner and Lohse?"

"Yes, you know them?"

"They've stopped by a few times." They were walking beside the Reflecting Pool, on the sidewalk on the south side. Clay was not going to say anything that he didn't want to hear again. "Mel, I know how the Fibbies operate. They like to pressure witnesses. They like to wire people and collect their evidence with gadgets and high-tech toys. Did they ask you to wear a wire?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I told them, 'Hell no.'"

"Thank you."

"I have a great lawyer, Clay. I've spent some time with him, told him everything. I did nothing wrong because I didn't trade the stock. I understand you did, which I'm sure you would handle differently now if given the chance. Maybe I had some inside information, but I did nothing with it. I'm clean. But the pinch comes when I'm subpoenaed by the grand jury."

The case had not yet been presented to the grand jury. Mel was indeed listening to a good lawyer. For the first time in four hours, Clay's breathing relaxed a little.

"Go on," he said cautiously. His hands were stuck deep in the pockets of his jeans. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes were watching every person around them. If Mel had told the Feds everything, why would they need wires and mikes?

"The big question is how did they find me? I told no one I was reviewing the stuff. Who did you tell?"

"Absolutely no one, Mel."

"That's hard to believe."

"I swear. Why would I tell anyone?"

They stopped for a moment to let the traffic pass on Seventeenth Street. When they were walking again, they drifted to the right, away from a crowd. Mel said, almost under his breath, "If I lie to the grand jury about the research, they'll have a hard time indicting you. But if I get caught lying, then I go to jail myself. Who else knows I reviewed the research?" he asked again.

And with that, Clay realized there were no wires, no mikes, no one was listening. Mel wasn't after evidence— he just wanted to be reassured. "Your name is nowhere, Mel," Clay said. "I shipped the stuff to you. You copied nothing, right?"

"Right."

"You shipped it back to me. I reviewed it again. There was no sign of you anywhere. We talked by phone a half a dozen times. All of your thoughts and opinions about the research were verbal."

"What about the other lawyers in the case?"

"A few of them have seen the research. They know I had it before we filed suit. They know a doctor reviewed it for me, but they don't have a clue who he is."

"Can the FBI pressure them to testify that you had the research before you filed suit?"

"No way. They can try, but these guys are lawyers, big lawyers, Mel. They don't scare easily. They've done nothing wrong—they didn't trade in the stock—and they'll give the Feds nothing. I'm protected there."

"Are you certain?" Mel asked, anything but certain.

"I'm positive."

"So what do I do?"

"Keep listening to your lawyer. There's a good chance this thing won't get to a grand jury," Clay said, more of a prayer than a fact. "If you hold firm, it'll probably go away."

They walked a hundred yards without a word. The Washington Monument was getting closer. "If I get a subpoena," Mel said, slowly, "we'd better talk again."

"Of course."

"I'm not going to jail over this, Clay."

"Neither am I."

They stopped in a crowd on a sidewalk near the monument. Mel said, "I'm going to disappear. Good-bye. From me, no news is good news." And with that, he darted through a group of high school students and vanished.

THE COCONINO COUNTY COURTHOUSE in Flagstaff was relatively quiet the day before the trial. Business was routine; no hint of the historic and far-reaching conflict soon to be raging there. It was the second week in September, the temperature already pushing 105. Clay and Oscar walked around the downtown area, then quickly entered the courthouse in search of air-conditioning.

Inside the courtroom, though, pretrial motions were being argued and things were tense. No jury sat in the box; that selection process would begin promptly at nine the following morning. Dale Mooneyham and his team covered one side of the arena. The Goffman horde, led by a fancy litigator from L.A. named Roger Redding, occupied the other half. Roger the Rocket, because he struck fast and hard. Roger the Dodger, because he went all over the country, fighting the biggest trial lawyers he could find, dodging big verdicts.

Clay and Oscar took seats with the other spectators, of which there was an impressive number just for motion arguments. Wall Street would watch the trial very closely. It would be a continuing story in the financial press. And, of course, the vultures like Clay were quite curious. In the front two rows were a dozen or so corporate clones, no doubt the very nervous folks from Goffman.

Mooneyham lumbered around the courtroom like a barroom bully, bellowing at the Judge, then at Roger. His voice was rich and de............