“Good evening,” Crowley replied, coming around to the passenger side and getting in.

“Not an especially cheery place to meet up,” M.T. said, “but safer than in town.”

Crowley said nothing as M.T. pulled away and drove into the park till they reached a secluded picnic area covered by a canopy of pines and oaks; a little, colorful field of wildflowers looked like a painting in the car’s halogen headlights.

M.T. turned off the lights and ignition and cracked windows on both sides. “Good trip?” he asked.

“Horrid. Tell me about Rihnai.”

“Not much to tell, really. Poor bugger had half his head blown off. We’d just had a meeting at one of the safe houses. Can’t use that place again. It’s been compromised. Not quite sure how that happened, or how Rihnai was found out, but working on it.”

“The young Iraqi he befriended as a source. Do you know him?”

“Afraid not. Never did meet him or know his name. Clever chap, the former Mr. Ghaleb Rihnai was. He evidently knew that as long as he kept his Iraqi source to himself, he held the trump card. Didn’t get him very far, though. A bloody shame what happened to him. He wanted out, wanted to go back to the States. Maybe he knew someone was on to him.”

“And to you,” Crowley said. “Look, I’ve been sent here to make sure that there’s a sense of urgency on your part. The Americans are damned edgy about what your Mr. Rihnai came up with. You said in your communiqués that the attack was being choreographed out of Cairo. Explain. How did this Iraqi patsy know that?”

“Through a brother in Iraq, according to Ghaleb. This brother, another name he wouldn’t share with me, is connected there. At least that’s what he claimed.”

“This concerns me,” said Crowley, lowering his window farther to allow more night air into the Mercedes. “All I hear from you is ‘he claimed’ and ‘as far as I know.’ If al-Qaeda successfully pulls off this attack, the fallout will be significant. We’ve got to have more specifics.”

“Back off, Crowley,” M.T. said. “I’m doing all I can here, with bloody little support. If Ghaleb hadn’t been taken out, I’ve no doubt that those ‘specifics’ you want would be forthcoming. But damn it, man, I’ve given you all I can. Ghaleb said that bin Laden has personally ordered the attack, and that it’s being activated through an al-Qaeda cell in Cairo. Oh, yes, and there’s some vague Canadian connection. Sorry, mate, but that’s all Ghaleb had to say about that. His Iraqi source was intending to go back to Baghdad and confer there with his brother. We would have learned more specifics if Ghaleb hadn’t gotten it.”

Crowley said nothing.

“You’d think the bloody Americans would do their own snooping,” M.T. said. “Hell, it’s them at the receiving end of the attack. Doesn’t make sense to me why we’re digging up dirt for them, sticking out our necks. I’ve got a contracting business to run here in Jordan, plenty of work to keep me busy without playing spy games for the Yanks.”

“When can you find out more?” Crowley asked, ignoring the diatribe.

“Probably not fast enough for you, Crowley. Not without Ghaleb and his Iraqi chum.”

“Keep trying.”

“Easy for you to say, mate. Staying in Amman long?”

“No.”

“Back to Baghdad?”

“No. Washington. Tomorrow morning.”

“I’m due for some R-and-R myself,” M.T. said.

“Take me back to the city,” Crowley said.

“Right you are, mate. I’m a full-service provider, handler, and chauffeur. On the side, I fix boilers in this bloody place.” He started the car, turned on the lights, and drove away, the angry sound of the engine mirroring his mood. He dropped Crowley off at a taxi stand on the outskirts of the city.

“Always a pleasure,” M.T. said as Crowley exited the car without saying a word and climbed into a waiting cab. “And your mother, too,” M.T. muttered as he watched the taxi disappear into a dense fog that had descended upon the city.

Sylvia Johnson and Carl Berry were going over the day’s schedule when Willie Portelain came through the door.

“What are you doing here?” Berry asked. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital.”

“Got sprung, man. I told them I was feeling topnotch and had important work to do, said the city needed me.”

He eyed the half-eaten jelly donut sitting on a napkin on the desk, which Sylvia moved behind a pile of file folders.

“So, Willie,” Berry said, “I understand you’re going on a diet.”

“Supposed to be,” he chortled, “only I don’t know what good it’ll do. These docs-man, they don’t know a hell of a lot. They poke around and stick you with all sorts a needles and then tell you to go on a diet and exercise. I’ve got pills, little white ones and little blue ones. You’d think they’d learn more than that in medical school, huh? Exercise? Get nothin’ but on this job. Right? The way I figure it, the man upstairs has everybody’s name on a list. He checks you off as you croak. When it’s your name that comes up, good-bye baby, hasta la vista, cash in your potato chips. All the diets in the world ain’t going to change that.”

“That’s one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard from you, Willie,” Sylvia said.

“Watch your mouth, girl. Just ’cause you were born with good genes don’t mean everybody was. Our number comes up, that’s it. In the meantime, here I am, ready to save Washington from the bad guys.” Then, quietly, to Sylvia: “Thanks, baby, for taking care of ol’ Willie yesterday.”

“You’d do the same for me,” she said.

“I’d do more than that,” he said, giving her what passed for a leer. “So, what’s up for today?”

“The Lee case,” Berry said.

“How about that punk piano player?” Portelain asked.

“The one you coldcocked?” Berry said.

“That’s him,” Willie said. “Hey, I didn’t hit the punk. He ran right into my arm.”

“So I heard,” said Berry. “Look, in the first place, he’s no punk. He’s maybe a little stupid when it comes to self-preservation, but from what we know, he’s a first-rate pianist. He’s not bringing charges.”

Portelain guffawed. “Him? Bring charges? For what?”

“Police brutality.”

“Screw him,” Portelain said. “I-”

“Forget about that,” Berry said. “Our friend doesn’t have an alibi that can be corroborated. He stays bright on the radar screen. I figure we let him stew for a day or two, lick his wounds, and do some thinking. In the meantime, I want you two-I assumed it would only be Sylvia, but now that you’re here, Willie, I want both of you to question those agents, Melincamp and his partner…” He checked his notes. “Ms. Baltsa.”

“I already talked to Melincamp,” Portelain said. “He’s a strange-o.”

“Talk to him again. Public Affairs is swamped with media inquiries. We need something to feed them. PA is holding a press conference at five. It would be nice if I could tell them we’re making progress. Get back over to the Kennedy Center in your spare time and pump anyone who was there the night she was killed. Let’s not limit things to the victim’s inner circle.”

“In our spare time?” Willie snorted.

“PA will say we’re making progress whether we are or not,” Johnson said. “‘No specifics,’” she said, mimicking a department spokesman. “‘We aren’t able to comment on an ongoing investigation.’ The usual.”

Berry stood and stretched. “Let’s move,” he said. “Oh, did you two see this?” He held up a copy of Washingtonian.

“No,” Johnson said, taking the magazine.

“Page one thirteen,” Berry said.

Johnson opened it.

“Man, what’s he got his picture in there for?” Willie asked.

“The Washington Opera,” Berry replied. “Remember? He used to hang out with those people.”

“He was in some of the shows,” Johnson said.

“Right,” said Berry. “Take it. I’ve read it. Talk to those two agents, and check in with me later. Good to see you back, Willie. Do what the doctors told you.”