Shrugs.

“You said Parmele might consider him a terrorist,” Stripling said. “Why?”

“Like we said, Tim, it’s strictly need to know.”

Sure, Stripling thought. You just happened to mention that the president had some interest in Mr. Russo, but you don’t know why. Sure.

A knock on the door was followed by the entrance of an aide carrying a sheet of paper, which she handed to one of the agents. He put on his glasses, read it, and handed it to Stripling.

“ Barcelona, then to Newark on Delta,” Stripling said, reading from the sheet. “Nothing after that. Maybe he has relatives in New Jersey. New Jersey has a few Italians.”

“We’re convinced he’s on his way here,” an agent said. “U.S. Air shuttle? Amtrak? Doesn’t need a reservation on either one. Look, Tim, we’re supposed to not be involved in this. Officially, that is. The attorney general wants it kept outside the Bureau, which is why you’re here. We don’t know much about you except that you were covert with the Company, and Garson arranged for you to get involved through somebody over there.”

“And all I have to do is find this Russo-if he is headed for Washington -and keep tabs on him. Right?”

“That’s pretty much it. Here.”

Stripling was handed a manila file folder. Inside was a black-and-white photograph. A small white label at the bottom of the picture had the name Louis Russo printed on it, and the date 1991.

“How old was he when this was taken?” Stripling asked.

“Not sure” was the reply.

Stripling was handed a slip of paper. Written on it was a phone number with a 212 area code, and the name Courtney Tresh.

“Who’s he?” Stripling asked.

“She. NYPD. She can give you some background. Say you’re from the Liberty Press.”

“ Liberty Press?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why don’t you call her?” Stripling asked.

“Like we said, Garson wants us out of it.”

Stripling again consulted the sheet of paper. “According to this, Russo should have landed at Newark hours ago. Hell, if he is coming to Washington, he’s probably here by now.”

One of the agents pulled a cell phone from a briefcase at his feet and gave it to Stripling.

“No, thanks, I have my own,” Stripling said.

“Use this one,” he was told. “We’ve got the number programmed in the computer. We’ll get in touch if we come up with anything that might be of help to you. Don’t call us. We’ll call you. Thanks for coming in.”

Stripling was to the door when one of the agents said, “The attorney general won’t be happy if you don’t find Russo.”

“The attorney general. Garson, you mean.”

When Stripling was gone, one of the agents asked the other, “Do you know any more than you let on about why the AG is so interested in Russo?”

“No. But you can bet that for Garson to take a personal interest, his boss has one, too.”

Damn!”

Rich Marienthal shifted into neutral and slapped the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Damn! What the hell is going on?”

“Must be an accident,” Kathryn Jalick said from the passenger seat of the Subaru Outback.

Marienthal and Kathryn had been stalled in traffic for twenty minutes on the Lee Highway, halfway between Falls Church, Virginia, and Washington, only a few miles from D.C. They’d driven to Falls Church the previous day to attend the funeral of one of Kathryn’s aunts. The post-funeral gathering was held at the home of one of the deceased’s sons, a retired FBI agent who lived in the Falls Church area and who urged Rich and Kathryn to stay over. Marienthal balked at the suggestion, but Kathryn, pleased to be with family she seldom saw, prevailed.

Now, after a late start back to D.C.-“I told you we should have left more time,” she’d chided cheerfully-they sat in the traffic jam, Marienthal’s frequently consulted wristwatch ticking off the minutes.

He leaned on the horn.

“That won’t help anything,” Kathryn said.

He clicked on the radio and tuned to all-news WTOP in search of a traffic report.

“He told me the train when he called,” Marienthal growled. “He’s due to arrive any minute, if he’s not there already.” Another slap on the wheel, harder this time, shook it, and Kathryn feared it might break. She placed her hand on his thigh to calm him, but it was a futile gesture. He squirmed in his seat, leaned out the window to look ahead, and blew the horn again, causing the driver in front to turn and gesture, not a friendly one.

While Marienthal fumed, Kathryn thought less cheerfully about the past twenty-four hours.

Lately she’d been caught between what the reality of their relationship had become and what she wanted it to be. The fact was, things had slid downhill over the past months, and she wasn’t happy about it. There hadn’t been anything tangible to point to, certainly nothing like physical abuse or a suspicion that Rich might be cheating on her. Her sister in Kansas, one of the few people in whom Kathryn confided, had asked whether Kathryn thought Rich might be seeing someone else.

“I’m sure he isn’t,” she’d replied, with a rueful laugh. “He doesn’t have time to see me, let alone somebody else. He’s so totally consumed with this book he’s working on that-”

“What is the book about?” her sister asked. “You keep saying he’s working on a book, but you never say what it’s about.”

Kathryn hated to lie to her sister. Their adult relationship had been grounded in honesty. But this was different. Rich had sworn her to secrecy, and she was determined to honor her promise to him.

“I’m really not sure,” she fibbed. “You never can be sure what a book’s about till you’ve read it. He’s very secretive about it. You know how writers are.” A nervous laugh.

“No, I don’t, Kathy. I mean, I don’t know any writers.”

“Well, Rich is protective of… he’s… well, he’s secretive, that’s all. I don’t know how else to put it.”

Her sister hesitated before asking, “Do you think you guys might break up?”

“I hope not. I know, I know, I’ve been complaining a lot lately, and I don’t mean to say bad things about Rich. He’s really a sweetheart, a terrific guy.”

“I’ll take your word for it. When do we get to meet him?”

“Soon, I hope. I-”

“You were going to bring him out here over Christmas.”

“He was-he was busy with the book.”

“The book.”

Kathryn laughed. “Yes, the book. Got to run. Love you. Later.”

She’d cut that conversation short because she realized she’d been sounding like a broken record, complaining to her sister about how Marienthal had become distant from her, perpetually distracted, it seemed. Their lovemaking, which had been frequent and satisfying early in the relationship, had become only an occasional event over the past year. Was it because he’d lost interest in her as a sexual partner? Had be become bored with her? Would he seek a more appealing partner? There were so many attractive, willing women in Washington, although she didn’t consider herself unattractive. She’d put a few pounds on since they had met, a little extra flesh on her stomach. But he’d told her he liked that, and enjoyed kissing her belly when they made love. She’d tried new hairdos; she now wore her hair short. It was coal black and rich in color and texture. Her pale skin was flawless, and she applied what little makeup she wore with some skill. Did he no longer love her dimples and what he called her “chipmunk cheeks”? She didn’t want to succumb to this self-doubt about her physical appeal. It was so pre-fem lib, so feeding into the Playboy image of the ideal woman. But she was human. She loved him and wanted to be perfect for him.

Her need to justify the changes in him trumped more rational explanations.