Clive Andrews sat in the second-story window at the corner of Main and First, the only two streets in town. Downstairs was a drugstore all rigged to explode, except there were no triggers and there was barely enough explosive to blow up a candy box.
Not that he’d know, but that’s what Lieutenant Jurgen had promised him.
It didn’t really matter if it was rigged to blow for real, because when Miss Watson—never Ms. or Mrs.—asked for a “favor,” you did it. At least he did. Actually, he had yet to meet anyone else who knew her. Not that he’d asked around. She wasn’t the sort of person one talked about with strangers, or even close friends. He’d bet even if they did, it would be in whispers. That’s just what she was like.
So he’d traveled across town from the White House and into Maryland on
