“Okay,” she replied. “You?”

“Good class. I just spoke with Kathryn Jalick.”

“Oh? How is she?”

“Fine. Sounded distracted. I think she and Rich forgot about dinner tomorrow night.”

“Good thing you called. They are coming?”

“Yes. He’s in New York today meeting with his publisher, back tonight. Up for lunch?”

“Sure.”

“Druthers?”

“Whatever restaurant has the best air-conditioning. The unit here at the gallery is on its last legs. It’s been groaning all morning.”

“Does Zagat rate restaurants on their AC?”

She laughed and said, “Wouldn’t be a bad idea here in Washington. Paolo’s? An hour?”

“I’ll be there. If their AC’s down, we’ll eat at home, maybe even linger a while.”

“I sense a proposition.”

“That’s one of many things I love about you, Annabel. You’re very astute. With any luck, birds have nested in Paolo’s air-conditioning and it’s on the fritz. As a matter of fact, let’s assume that. The apartment in an hour?”

“Forty-five minutes, Smith. Don’t be late.”

Tim Stripling, ex-CIA, sat at the desk in his home. On the desk were articles about the Russo murder he’d clipped from newspapers, and a yellow legal pad on which he’d written notes from a call he’d made to New York shortly after leaving his meeting with FBI agents. He’d expected the call to be picked up by a recorded electronic voice. Instead, the ringing stopped when a woman said, “Detective Tresh.”

“Hello, Detective. My name is Stripling, Timothy Stripling. Liberty Press. I was told to call you about Louis Russo.”

“Hold on.”

Detective Tresh came back on the line and read from a prepared script: “Louis Russo. Born 1932 New York City. Father, Nicholas, Italian. Mother, Lillian, Jewish. Five siblings. Joined Gambino family 1947, age fifteen. Loan-sharking, numbers collection, prostitution, enforcement, drug trafficking. Six known murders, first in 1953, age twenty-one. Mid-level soldier in family. Four arrests, three indictments. Arrested on drug charges 1990. Turned informant 1991, age fifty-nine. Testified in RICO trial 1991. Witness protection program 1991. Federal Bureau of Investigation handling. Wife, Anna, deceased 1989. No known children. Year in Mexico under bilateral agreement with Mexican government. Relocated Israel 1993. There since. Cohabitation with Sasha Levine, Jewish, current age fifty-five, residence Tel Aviv. Priority level low.”

Stripling heard silence.

“Anything else?” he asked.

“Negative.”

“Thanks.”

The line went dead.

That conversation took place before Russo was killed at Union Station and before Stripling knew of the murder. Now that the man he was supposed to find was dead, the information he’d received from Detective Tresh was meaningless, albeit interesting. The old mafioso probably had been caught in a drug sting in 1990 and squeezed to cooperate with the feds. Dealing in narcotics after years of forbidding it had brought down more than one mobster. Russo had violated the oath of omertà, of silence, and paid the ultimate price thirteen years later. The Mafia’s memory was long and unforgiving.

That series of thoughts was interrupted by the phone’s ringing.

“Hello?”

“Timothy, my friend. It’s Mark.”

Stripling’s former boss at the CIA, Mark Roper, was fond of referring to people as “my friend” or “old buddy.” Stripling learned long ago that when he was on the receiving end of such platitudes, it was reason to be wary.

“Hello, Mark.”

“Everything well with you?”

“Yes. You?”

Roper sighed. “Quite well, despite our valiant members of Congress considering themselves experts on intelligence. I’ve finally come to the conclusion that the House truly represents America-wife beaters, drunks, lawyers, doctors, flimflam artists, born-agains, atheists, pillars of their communities, and absolute rogues. Enough of that. I hear your meeting with our friends went well.”

“Didn’t amount to much.”

“So I read. The fellow you were interested in is no longer.”

“If you mean he’s dead, you’re right.”

“But that doesn’t mean you’re dead.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they still want you on the case. Two o’clock, same place.”

“To do what?”

“They’ll explain. Mind a suggestion?”

“I probably will, but go ahead anyway.”

“Be cooperative.”

Stripling laughed. “I have always been the model of cooperation, Mark.”

“A very poor model at times. This is important, Tim.”

“To you?”

“To others more important than me.”

Stripling resisted correcting his grammar.

“I hate to be crass, Mark,” Stripling said, “but you never have told me what I’m being paid.”

“Five hundred a day and expenses. It will show up in your checking account.”

“Make it seven-fifty.”

“Five hundred. Please, Tim, cooperate.”

“Thought I’d try.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Stripling hung up and again read the information he’d received from the detective in New York and the newspaper clips on the Russo murder. Why the continuing focus on this old guy? Stripling’s initial assumption that the murder was a mob hit was now a little shaky. He was to meet with the FBI agents again. Surely, having someone killed who’d been in the witness protection program for thirteen years couldn’t be the reason for the Bureau’s sustaining interest. And why bring him, Timothy Stripling, into it? The Bureau had plenty of ex-agents looking to freelance.

He made himself a salad from leftover chicken, did a half hour of light stretching exercises, took the two handguns from where they were secured in a safe inside a bedroom closet and checked them, almost a daily, obsessive ritual, returned the weapons to the safe, and stepped out into the bright, hot sunlight.

Five hundred a day, he thought as he looked for a taxi to take him to FBI headquarters. It would do, at least for the moment. But money aside, he now had another reason for playing along. He wanted to know who this Louis Russo really was and why he was here, and why both the FBI and CIA wanted the answer, too. One thing was certain in his mind. Their interest reflected that of someone high up the chain, very high.

Marienthal’s Delta shuttle flight to New York was delayed by thunderstorms that moved through Reagan National Airport that morning. He arrived at La Guardia almost a full hour later than planned and took a taxi into the city, where he was left off in front of an office building on Park Avenue South. He checked his watch; he still had fifteen minutes before his scheduled meeting and used it to grab a coffee and Danish at a luncheonette next door. Fortified, he entered the lobby, took the first available elevator, and rode to the ninth floor, where the offices of the publishing company, Hobbes, were located.

“I’m Rich Marienthal,” he told the young, moonfaced blonde receptionist. “I have an appointment with Sam Greenleaf.”

“Have a seat,” she said pleasantly. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Marienthal browsed a recent issue of People until Greenleaf appeared. “Hello, Rich,” he said, crossing the reception area and shaking hands. “Come on in.”

Greenleaf, Hobbes House’s managing editor, was a large man in all ways-head, face, body, and hands. Sporting an unkempt reddish beard, he wore brown corduroy slacks, well-worn space shoes that showed the result of supporting excess weight for too long, and a checked shirt undoubtedly bought through a big-and-tall-man catalogue. He led Marienthal to a sizable office as disorganized as his personal appearance, moved files from a chair in front of a desk overflowing with books and papers, and invited Marienthal to sit. Photographs dangled crookedly on the walls. A window in need of washing reluctantly allowed gray light into the room. The powdery remains of crumb cake were scattered on a piece of foil on the desk.