“Good trip?” he asked.

“Delayed. Weather in D.C. But I’m here.”

“Good, good. Coffee?”

“Just had some.”

Greenleaf used the phone on his desk to ask someone to fetch him a cup, sat back, and shook his head. “Couldn’t believe the news when you called me,” he said. “Incredible. Who the hell could ever have forecast such a thing?”

“Not me, Sam. That’s for sure.”

Greenleaf came forward and rested his chin on a bridge formed by his hands. “What’s the latest, Rich? I mean, do you know who did it?”

“I have no idea.”

Marienthal adjusted his position in the chair and looked at one of the photographs on the wall, a formally posed portrait of the publishing house’s founder and namesake, Wallace Hobbes. The founder, now deceased, claimed to be a distant relation-very distant-to the seventeenth-century English political philosopher Thomas Hobbes. Hobbes had spawned the movement known as Hobbism, whose creed claimed that human beings were so lazy, selfish, and self-aggrandizing that only an absolute monarchy could control them. Why Wallace Hobbes-or anyone for that matter-would want to claim a relationship to a man with such ideas was lost on Marienthal.

Greenleaf returned to a more relaxed posture in his oversized, overstuffed office chair. “What do you figure, Rich, that those former friends of his who ended up behind bars because of his big mouth finally got even? But why now? Didn’t you tell me Russo was a sick man?”

“Revenge is the most logical explanation,” Marienthal said, reaching into a pocket of his tan safari jacket for a Kleenex. “I think I’m getting a cold,” he said, blowing his nose.

“Summer colds are the worst,” said Greenleaf. “They tend to hang on forever.”

“So I’ve heard. Look, Sam, the question now is, what does this do to the book?”

Greenleaf held up his hand. “Hard to say. It’s all so new. I’ve already been on the phone with Pamela. She’s not happy at this turn of events.”

Pamela Warren was Hobbes’s publisher, a steely woman who’d come up through the ranks at other publishing houses. Those who knew her and had worked with her agreed that she was a savvy businesswoman, a careful publisher, and utterly humorless, especially when it came to the bottom line.

“I’m not happy either,” Marienthal said, “about a lot of things. But that’s irrelevant. The question is how to get around it.” He frowned as a new and unwelcome thought came to him. “She’s not considering yanking the book, is she?”

Greenleaf raised his palm against what had been said. “No fear of that, Rich. The story you’ve so adroitly put together will still have impact, whether Mr. Russo is alive or not.” He paused; an unpleasant expression crossed his face. “Of course,” he said, “we have lost the timing and the event, the very things we were counting on. How that will impact sales is another question.”

Marienthal had expected this issue to be raised and had formulated a response. He started to express it but was interrupted by the arrival of Greenleaf’s coffee. The editor tasted it, swiveled in the chair, reached for something on the credenza behind him, and handed Marienthal a color proof of his book’s jacket.

“We were supposed to have finished books by now,” Marienthal said.

A shrug from Greenleaf. “The wheels of publishing grind slow, Rich. Your book has gone from manuscript to print faster than we’ve ever done before. It’s coming off the presses as we speak. But getting books into the stores is our problem. Your problem is what happens now in Washington. Have you spoken with your friend on the Hill?”

“Last night.”

“And?”

“And they want to go forward with the hearings, using the book.”

“Having a book take the oath isn’t nearly as sexy as having your Mr. Russo do it.”

“You say that as though I could have done something to prevent his getting killed.”

“No, no, no, Rich. I wasn’t suggesting that. It’s just that…”

Marienthal cocked his head. “Just?”

“It’s just that when you brought us the proposal, its appeal was-well, let’s just say there was a built-in publicity hook that helped in our decision to buy it. It was something that Pamela-that we were counting on. Here. Look.”

He gave Marienthal mock-ups of ads that had been prepared by an outside agency. Marienthal scanned them quickly and put them on the desk. “What can I say, Sam? They’ll have to be redone.”

“Provided Pamela is willing to lay out the money to do them over. She runs a tight ship, Rich. I’ll be meeting with her this afternoon. I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, we have to go with what we have, minus your inconsiderate Louis Russo.”

“Inconsiderate?”

Greenleaf laughed away his words. “Getting himself killed the way he did. Bad timing, if nothing else.”

Marienthal resisted commenting on Greenleaf’s insensitivity. While his relationship with Louis Russo had initially been solely for the purpose of writing a book, he’d grown to like the old mafioso.

It hadn’t been easy convincing Russo to tell his story for the book Marienthal intended to write. He’d had to work at gaining his trust and had been uncomfortable at times with things he’d said and promised to achieve that trust. Russo, if not exactly a gracious host during Marienthal’s frequent visits to Tel Aviv, had been unfailingly courteous. So had the woman, Sasha, whose good-natured challenges to Russo seemed exactly what was needed to pick up his spirits when they flagged, and to spur him to believe he might live to see another day.

When Marienthal had started writing his novel about a Mafia hit man, it was inconceivable that he would wind up having Hobbes as his publisher. Hobbes published only nonfiction-right-wing nonfiction at that-reflecting the house’s conservative editorial philosophy. It was known as a willing conduit for books generated by the conservative elements in government, and according to some in the publishing industry was handsomely compensated by those elements-a vanity press for special interests whose message matched that of the publisher.

Rich’s numerous meetings with Russo in Israel had provided the sort of inside knowledge he needed to give the novel the ring of truthfulness and authenticity. The old man was a good storyteller and seemed to enjoy reliving his days on the streets and in the so-called social clubs of his Mafia family: the women and the rubouts, his brushes with the law, the colorful characters who were his friends and later his enemies. During one of Marienthal’s earlier visits to Tel Aviv, Russo had told him a story that shocked the young writer. Was it true? Could it be true? Whether it was or not, it provided Rich with a powerful scene to include in the novel.

Not long after returning from that trip, he was introduced to Geoff Lowe at a party.

“What kind of things do you write?” Lowe asked.

Rich told him about the novel and mentioned the startling story Russo had told him, adding, “Probably apocryphal.”

At Lowe’s urging, they met for lunch the next day.

After Rich had delivered a more complete version of Russo’s story over burgers and beer at Hawk and Dove-Lowe’s treat-Lowe asked, “Why the hell are you doing it as a novel?”

“I don’t know,” Marienthal replied. “I suppose because I’m a novelist.”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” said Lowe, “but how many first novels sell? I mean, Christ, what’s the chances of even finding a decent publisher?”

“It won’t be easy, Geoff, but I’m confident.”

Lowe drained his beer and wiped his mouth. “Listen to me,” he said, leaning closer. “What if I can guarantee you a publishing contract?”

Marienthal laughed. “Guarantee me? What are you, a literary agent? I thought you worked for Senator Widmer.”