He noticed her makeup, nicely applied.

“An assignment,” she said. “A very sensitive one.”

“An assignment,” he repeated with exaggerated awe. “Sounds absolutely spooky.”

“Mr. Stripling, the attorney general-”

“Wait a minute, Gertrude,” Stripling said. “Let me get this straight. What’s your job with the AG?” When he received no reply, he continued. “What do they do, keep you in a frumpy suit during working hours, then tell you to drag out your prom dress and mascara and have clandestine meets with people like me? You look good.”

Her expression was vacant, nonresponsive.

The waitress brought rolls and butter.

“No offense,” he said.

“I took none. If you’re finished with your snappy dialogue, Mr. Stripling, I can get to the point.”

“I can’t wait.”

She glanced down at blood-red nails on one of her hands before speaking. “I don’t like you, Mr. Stripling. I find you offensive. For the record.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he said, settling back in the booth and crossing his arms on his chest. “For the record.”

She beckoned him closer with her index finger, and he obliged. She, too, leaned forward. Her voice was low but clear. “That said,” she said, “I also understand that when certain tasks must be accomplished, we can’t always deal with those people we like.”

“Go ahead, Gert. I’m listening.”

If his pointed use of her first name rankled, she didn’t show it.

“You are aware, Mr. Stripling, that we are in the midst of a war against terrorism.”

“Yeah, I heard something about it. How’s it going?”

She ignored his flippancy. “Significant progress has been made under President Parmele’s leadership.”

“Is this a pitch for a campaign contribution? Who do I make the check out to?”

Her face reflected her first moment of pique since he’d entered the bar. It caused him to smile. He said, “Let me see, Gertrude, I was told to drive over here to Tysons Corner to receive a personal briefing on the war against terrorism. I really appreciate it, but I had other plans for the evening. You mentioned an assignment. What is it?”

Her answer was delayed by the arrival of their salads. He wished he’d ordered something more substantial, a burger or a rack of ribs. Once the waitress had departed, she said, “I have other plans this evening, too, Mr. Stripling, so I’ll get to the point. I’ll talk, you eat-and listen. When I’m finished, please leave.”

“Good,” he said, spearing a forkful of salad. “You’re on. You’ve got until I finish this salad, which should give you about six and a half minutes.”

Seven minutes later, he wiped his mouth with his napkin, took a healthy swig of water, and said, “Nice presentation, Gertrude. You must make the attorney general proud. I’ll get on it right away.”

She started on her salad.

“When I find the stuff you’re looking for and the guy, I’ll let you know.”

“Through your usual channels. We never had this meeting.”

He placed a small piece of paper on which he’d been taking notes into the breast pocket of his shirt, laughed, and slid from the booth. “Believe me, Gertrude,” he said, looking down at her, “I’ll find it easy to forget I ever saw you.”

Now, back in his apartment, he finished his ice cream and reviewed the notes he’d taken during his meeting with Assistant Attorney General Gertrude Klaus. He’d written on the paper the names Frank Marienthal (New York mob attorney, father of Richard Marienthal, represented Russo), and Mackensie Smith (family friend, former criminal lawyer in D.C., prof at GW, vetted Marienthal’s publishing contract), and took another look at a picture of Richard Marienthal he’d taken from the folder on the kitchen table. He dialed Marienthal’s number.

“Hello?” Kathryn Jalick said.

“Is Richard there?” Stripling asked.

“Who’s calling?”

“Name’s Simmons. I’m with Liberty Media. I’ve been assigned to interview him about his new book.”

“I-I’m afraid he’s not here.”

“My bad luck. When do you expect him?”

“Not for a while. He’s away-researching his next book.”

“If you’ll give a number, I’ll be happy to call him no matter where he is. I’m on deadline.”

“I don’t have a contact number for him, Mr.-”

“Simmons. Charlie Simmons. I’ll try him again another time.”

“If you give me a number at which you can be reached, I’ll-”

The line went dead as he quietly lowered the receiver into its cradle.

He took another look at Marienthal’s photo, shook his head, and muttered, “Terrorist, my ass.” He went to the bedroom, where he dressed in slacks, an open-neck shirt, a blue denim sports jacket, and loafers. Returning to the kitchen, he secured his holster beneath the jacket. Its weight felt strange; he hadn’t worn it or killed anyone in four years.

He took a taxi to the Lincoln Suites Hotel on L Street and picked up a house phone in the lobby. Sasha answered on the first ring.

“Ms. Levine, this is Charlie Simmons. I’m a friend of Richard Marienthal.” He generally used the fictitious first name Charlie because he’d decided over the years that people tended to believe people named Charlie.

“Oh, hello,” she said.

“I hope I’m not calling too late,” he said pleasantly.

“No, not at all. I was reading a book.”

“Hope it’s a good one,” he said.

“A very good one.”

“I’ve been trying to get hold of Richard all evening. I thought-”

“I have been trying to reach him, too,” she said.

He laughed. “You know what writers are like,” he said. “Always disappearing. Any idea where he is?”

“No.”

“I know how excited he is with the book coming out and all. Boy, I have to admit that when he played some of those tapes for me, my hair stood on end.”

“He played the tapes for you?”

“Just some, a few selected portions. He told me all about you and Mr. Russo. I couldn’t believe it when he was killed like that, right in broad daylight in Union Station with a million people around.”

“You said your name was?”

“Charlie Simmons. Rich and I go back a long way.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t believe he ever mentioned you.”

“We kind of lost touch for a while. Any chance of buying you a drink?”

“Oh, that’s very kind, but I’m afraid I’m not up to a drink. Tomorrow I must-”

“Tomorrow?”

“Nothing. Thank you for calling. If you will give me your number, I’ll ask Rich to call if I hear from him.”

“Sure you can’t spare me even a few minutes? Not even a quick cup of coffee? Rich said so many nice things about you that I’d hate to miss the chance to at least say hello in person. I don’t get to Israel very often.”

There was a pause before she said, “All right. But only a quick cup.”

“Great. I’m right around the corner. Be there in five minutes. See you in the lobby. You’ll recognize me. I’m the handsome one in the blue denim jacket.”

Bret Mullin’s experiment with going to bed sober was short-lived. The phone rang minutes after he’d turned out the light. “Mullin,” he said.

“Bret? It’s Rosie.”

He hadn’t heard from his former wife in a month; the familiar sound of her husky voice was welcome.

“How are you, Rosie?”

“All right. I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“No, no, you know me. A night owl.” He was aware that he sounded clearheaded, and was pleased that he did. “What’s up?”

“It’s Cynthia, Bret. She was in a car accident earlier tonight.”

“Jesus. Is she okay?”

“Some bruises and a mild concussion. They treated her at the hospital and released her. She called me from home.”

“Thank God she’s okay. Not seriously hurt, I mean.”