The hotel phone in Storm’s suite woke him from an alcohol-induced slumber. Several jigger-sized whiskey bottles pillaged from the hotel’s minibar littered the nightstand. He’d stayed up late trolling for information on the encrypted computer network that the CIA and other federal intelligence services could access via the Internet. His searches had led him to several clues. But what he’d uncovered remained disjoined pieces of a puzzle that still needed to be assembled.

At around 3 A.M., Storm had gone to bed, but he’d found it difficult to sleep. He’d known why. It wasn’t the kidnapping. There were two reasons, and both had to do with his return to Washington, D.C. Clara Strike and Tangiers. Sometimes only Jack Daniel’s could help a man black out his past.

A woman’s voice on the telephone line said, “Senator Windslow is calling.”

Storm checked the clock next to the king-sized bed. It was a few minutes after 6 A.M. His head was throbbing. The next voice he heard was Windslow’s. “Those bastards left me another note-this one at my house.”

“Did they send anything else?”

“No teeth or body parts, if that is what you’re asking. But they raised their ransom demand.”

“How much?”

“Six million! I’m at my house in Great Falls. Get out here now!”

Storm jotted down the address and asked, “Have you called Agent Showers?”