“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“I won’t go into the details, Ms. Jalick, but Rich and Louis Russo were to be a big part of those hearings.”

Kathryn said nothing.

“Russo’s dead, but Rich’s taped interviews with him are crucial to the senator and his committee. Do you have access to those tapes?”

“Of course not.”

“Rich has them?”

“Please, Mr. Greenleaf, I know nothing about tapes and hearings. You’re wasting your time talking to me.”

If he agreed-and probably did-he didn’t state it.

“Will you call me if you hear from Rich?”

“Let me have your number.”

She considered taking the phone off the hook, but was afraid she might miss a call from Rich. Later that afternoon, a call came in from Geoff Lowe’s girlfriend and colleague, Ellen Kelly. She hadn’t spoken with Ellen in a long time and was surprised to hear from her.

“How’s it going?” Ellen asked.

“Okay. You?”

“Busy. Swamped. Excited about Rich’s book coming out?”

“I-yes, very excited.”

“I imagine the author is on cloud nine.”

“He’s-he’s pleased. How’s Geoff?”

“The same as always. You know Geoff.”

Kathryn didn’t express that she did indeed know Geoff, and didn’t like what she knew. She said, “I was just about to run out, Ellen. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t suppose Richard is there.”

“No, he’s not.”

“I’m not being honest,” Ellen said. “I know he’s not there. Geoff has been frantic looking for him.”

“If you’re asking me where he is,” Kathryn said, “you’re wasting your time.”

“Kathryn, I’ll get to the point. Richard’s life is in danger.”

Kathryn felt her heart stop for a second. That his life might be in danger had been on her mind for days. But to hear someone say it, actually say it, was jolting.

“Did you hear me, Kathryn?” Ellen said. “His life is in danger.”

“Why?” was all Kathryn could summon.

“The book. The tapes. Especially the tapes. Don’t you see it? The tapes contain Louis Russo’s words, the same words he would have spoken had he lived and testified. It’s his voice. Whoever killed him wants Rich out of the way, too.”

Kathryn used a foot to pull an ottoman to where she stood and sat heavily on it. “Go on,” she said.

“Kathryn,” Ellen said in measured tones, like a teacher about to go through a particularly difficult lesson, “as long as Russo’s tapes are floating around, there are people who will kill to get their hands on them.”

“Who?” Kathryn, asked, feeling a touch of nausea.

“It doesn’t matter who. There’s only one way to protect Rich, Kathryn, and that’s for him to give up those tapes. Once they’re no longer with him, he’s in the clear.”

Kathryn’s initial paralysis lifted.

Ellen Kelly worked for Geoff Lowe and Senator Karl Widmer. They wanted the tapes for their hearings. That’s what was behind the call. Ellen and the others weren’t concerned about Rich’s safety. People were expendable. It was the tapes that mattered.

“You want the tapes for the hearings,” she said forcefully.

Ellen responded even more forcefully: “I want Rich to be safe! Geoff may want the tapes for the hearing, but I don’t give a damn about them. I’m getting ready to leave the staff, Kathryn. I’ve had it. Believe it or not, I’ve spent too long putting politics over people. I’m through.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Kathryn, can we get together for dinner? Lunch? A drink? I’m really concerned about Rich as long as he has those tapes.”

“I-I suppose so.”

“Now? I can come right over.”

“No. I have things to do. I’ll call you.”

“Kathryn, I don’t think you understand the gravity of this.”

“Oh, I do, I do, Ellen. I have another call coming in. Are you at your office?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call you there.”

She pushed Flash on the phone and heard Rich’s voice. “Hold on a second,” she told him, switching back to Ellen: “I have to take this, Ellen. I’ll call.”

She didn’t wait for Ellen to say anything, simply switched back to Rich on the other line.

After waking that afternoon, Marienthal had felt a need to get out of the apartment and to walk. Wearing sunglasses and a floppy tan rain hat, he quietly left the apartment-Jackson still slept-and got a half a block away before returning to grab the canvas bag containing his tapes and notes. The bag slung over his shoulder, he wandered the neighborhood until he found himself compelled to take a cab. When he climbed into the cab, he didn’t have a specific destination in mind, but the turbaned driver asked where he wished to go. “Union Station,” Marienthal replied, sounding as though someone else had said it.

The station was its usual busy hub of movement when he arrived. He paid the driver, walked through the main entrance on Massachusetts Avenue, paused and, like a tourist, looked up at the towering arched skylights over the Main Hall. His eyes went to the Augustus Saint-Gaudens stone sentinels looking down at the throngs of people moving through the vast hall. The shields covering the statue’s private parts had been added later to satisfy a call for modesty from some offended citizens.

He rode the escalator to the lower level, got cash from the Adams National Bank ATM machine, bought a newspaper, and took the only remaining seat in Johnny Rockets. He ordered coffee and a piece of lemon meringue pie. He looked around to see if anyone was showing interest in him. Satisfied no one was, he removed his sunglasses, and as he had never done before, read about himself in the paper. The article was illustrated with a picture of the cover of his book and a photo of Senator Karl Widmer. The statement previously released by Widmer’s staff indicated that the hearings into the role of the CIA in the assassination of the Chilean dictator Eliana would move forward, and that tape recordings of the assassin, Louis Russo, could provide evidence of the agency’s culpability in the murder. Adam Parmele’s involvement as head of the CIA wasn’t mentioned.

A leading Democrat on Widmer’s committee, a firm supporter of President Parmele, issued his own statement: “The hearings proposed by Senator Widmer represent nothing more than a blatant political witch hunt, based upon the questionable word of an aging, demented former Mafia killer, who for the past twelve years has been secluded under the witness protection program, and who now claims to have taken part in the assassination. His charges, contained in a recently published book, are ludicrous at best. Basing hearings on such absurd information makes a mockery of legitimate Senate hearings into important matters of state. I and my Democratic colleagues on the committee strenuously oppose this waste of taxpayer money in the interest of political gain.”

Marienthal’s name appeared near the end of the piece: “The book in which the charges are leveled, written by D.C. author Richard Marienthal, has just been published. Attempts to date to speak with Marienthal have been unsuccessful. According to his publisher, Hobbes House, the author’s whereabouts are unknown.”

Marienthal replaced his sunglasses and ate his pie, finished his coffee. He left the restaurant, a replica of a fifties diner, and returned to the street level. He took a circuitous route to the windows of the B. Dalton bookstore and viewed them from a distance. A pile of his books, with one perched on top to allow passersby to see the cover, occupied the window nearest the entrance. He overcame the temptation to enter the store and walked to Best Lockers, behind the Amtrak ticket counter and near Exclusive Shoe Shine. The lockers had been closed to the public after 9/11 as a security measure, but had been opened again. After taking a minute to make his decision, Marienthal located an empty locker and slid the canvas shoulder bag inside. He paused, removed the bag, and zipped it open. The tapes were bundled in plastic bags and secured with rubber bands, the notes filed in three-ring binders. He placed the bag’s contents in the locker, closed the door, and pocketed the key. The shoulder bag was like a pet rock or favorite wallet to Marienthal; no sense in leaving it behind.