“Intercepts of terrorist chatter have, according to this highly credible source, indicated that al-Qaeda and affiliated terrorist groups have decided to forgo large, spectacular targets like September eleven and focus on symbolic assassinations of American political leaders. In addition-and this has not been confirmed-there appears to be a connection between al-Qaeda and unspecified Jihadist cells in Canada. Stay tuned for further developments as they unfold.”

“You’d never think Canada would be involved,” she said as Pawkins used the remote to turn off the television. “They’re our friends.”

“He didn’t say Canada was involved,” Pawkins said. “And there’re terrorist groups in every nation in the world. Come on, I’m running late.”

He drove her to her apartment building, where a chaste kiss on the cheek sent her from the car. “I’ll call,” he said, not sure he would. No pox on her. She was attractive and sexy, aside from short fingers, and their bedtime tussle had been satisfactory.

But at the moment he had other, more pressing things on his mind. He had work to do.

He’d called a friend in Toronto a few days ago, a private detective for whom he’d done a few favors over the years, including having rescued a small Raphael still life that had been stolen from a Canadian collector, who’d hired Pawkins’ Toronto buddy to get it back. The thief, a barbarian with no appreciation of art, had cut the painting from its frame on the wall, which in Pawkins’ mind raised the crime to a capital offense, punishable by lethal injection. Pawkins traced the painting to a fat cat in Bethesda known to have a particular fondness for Raphael. Pawkins confronted the Bethesda collector and cut a deal: Give back the painting or face jail time. He delivered the work to his Toronto colleague and split a hefty fee with him. Of course, this was after Pawkins had retired from the MPD. It would have been a dicey deal had he still been a D.C. cop.

Pawkins had asked his Canadian friend to dig into the background of Charise Lee. He’d learned over his years as a Homicide detective that it was usually the victim who gave up the most useful clues. Know the victim and you know why someone would want him-or in this case, her-killed.

“Ms. Lee was an interesting young lady,” his friend reported on the phone. “Little girl, big talent-and a fiery disposition.”

“Fiery? How so?”

“Big on causes. Hung around with a group of like-minded wackos. Attended protests, carried signs, wants world hunger ended, protested your government’s invasion of Iraq. By the way, Ray, I agree with that.”

“Go on.”

“Had her share of boyfriends, none of whom she was likely to bring home to meet Daddy. Had a thing going with a piano player who, I’ve learned, went with her to Washington to study in this opera program you’ve got down there.”

“Christopher Warren.”

“Right. Anyway, after she played footsie with this Warren guy, she hooked up with an Iranian student at McGill U. He’s been linked to some organization that our government considers a possible terrorist sympathizer, fundraiser-feed the children but make sure there’s a little left over for belts that blow up. Of course, our government still hasn’t figured out what to do with mad cow disease, so its so-called war on terror is suspect.”

Pawkins was silent.

“Ray? You there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m trying to process all this. What the hell is a beautiful, young future opera star doing with that bunch of losers?”

“Hey, I don’t analyze. I just report. Just the facts, ma’am, like your TV guy Webb used to say on Dragnet. I loved that show.”

“So did I. What about the agents I told you about, Melincamp and Baltsa?”

“I’m working on that. I only have two hands, you know.”

“Was Christopher Warren involved with these wackos, too?”

“Evidently. By the way, you made this Charise Lee out to be a young kid. Young, hell. She was twenty-eight.”

“That’s young from my vantage point,” Pawkins said.

“I mean,” said his friend, “it’s a little old to still be marching for old left-wing causes.”

“No it’s not,” Pawkins said. “Lots of domeheads and guys with artificial knees marching these days. Gives them something to do, I suppose, makes them forget they have one foot in the grave. Thanks, buddy. Get back to me when you check out the agents.”

“They’re both coming!”

“Who?”

“The president and first lady.”

“We already knew that.”

“No, no, no, I don’t mean opening night for Tosca. They’re both coming to the ball.”

Annabel was one of a dozen women that morning attending a meeting of the Opera Ball committee, at which the announcement was made by chairwoman Nicki Frolich.

Frolich’s enthusiasm wasn’t shared by everyone else in the room. One spoilsport was the chair of the executive committee, Camile Worthington. “I’m not sure I’d be so excited about it,” she said. “Do you realize what it will mean having the president there? It was enough of a security nightmare with the first lady making an appearance. The president? It will be chaos, sheer chaos.”

“We can handle it,” Frolich said.

“We’d better handle it,” Laurie Webster, the opera company’s PR director, chimed in. “This is great. No president has ever attended the ball. We’ll get tremendous press out of it.”

“And have Secret Service people tasting all the food,” Camile said. “Look, I know this represents a coup of sorts, and we don’t have any choice but to make it work. But I’m an old hand at these things. I’ve been involved before in events at which the president showed up. You have no idea what it entails.”

“I’ve had my share of those experiences, too,” Nicki said, not about to be trumped. Camile Worthington wasn’t the only woman in the room to have partaken in affairs important enough for the president to lend his name and presence. “It just involves more planning, that’s all, and coordination with the White House. Let’s not put blinders on. Laurie is right. We’ll have wonderful press coverage.”

“Sell lots of tickets, too,” someone offered.

“We’re already sold out,” said another.

“What do you think, Annabel?”

Annabel laughed. “I don’t think it matters what anyone thinks,” she said. “If the president of the United States says he’s coming to the Opera Ball, you can’t very well call and uninvite him. He’s coming, we know he’s coming, and that’s that. I’m sure he and the first lady will make every attempt to disrupt as little as possible.”

“Annabel is right,” Nicki said. “Let’s view this positively and enjoy the honor it means to us and the opera. I also suggest that we immediately select someone to coordinate the president’s appearance. Annabel? It sounds like a job you’d be more than qualified to handle.”

Annabel started to demur, but others seconded the suggestion.

“Will you do it, Annabel?”

“I’ll give it my best,” she said.

“All right, then,” Nicki said, “let’s get down to the other business at hand. I’m pleased to announce that the strike has ended at the manufacturer of our velvet goodie bags. He’s confident he’ll be able to meet our deadline. I might also say that…”

Pawkins headed for Takoma Park, where he found Chris Warren accompanying a young, black soprano from the Domingo-Cafritz Program. Pawkins sat quietly in a corner of the otherwise empty rehearsal room and listened to her tackle “Marten aller Arten,” a challenging aria from Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio. Not bad, he thought, although he considered her voice to be characteristically light. Too many light voices being developed in America, he mused, too many young sopranos being fed a diet of Mozart arias to develop airy, nimble voices; constricted, compacted voices; “sausage sopranos,” as they were snidely called. He preferred bigger voices, the kind European opera audiences responded to, older voices-but not too old-capable of filling a large opera house while plumbing the depths of their roles.