Twelve minutes later, he got out in front of the Four Seasons Hotel, an elegant low-rise brick building at 2800 Pennsylvania Avenue. Without looking around, he strode into the lobby, then turned right and stood, shoulder against a column, peering through one of the huge windows at the avenue. The atmosphere was cool, hushed, serene, a perfect sanctuary to gaze out upon the world and once again wonder whether he was being vigilant or paranoid. For a time, he watched taxis and Town Cars pulling up, disgorging fashionable women in stiletto heels and expensive coifs, festooned with shopping bags. Two businessmen stood smoking and chatting, then moved off. He saw no one suspicious, yet he had to wonder whether he knew what to look for.

Exiting via the side entrance, he walked a dozen blocks, turning at length onto P Street where, a block further on, he came upon Trefoil Opticians. The owner's name-Terrence Markand-was stenciled in discreet gold letters on the window. It was a clean, well-lighted store in an old brownstone Federalist building. While the man behind the counter adjusted a pair of sunglasses on a woman, Bravo perused the displays of high-tech, fashionable frames with heart-stopping prices. Behind him, the woman walked out of the store. The man at the counter was tall and gaunt, with sunken cheeks and the complexion of an avocado. He gave Bravo a narrow smile along with his attention.

"How can I help you, sir?"

"Are you Mr. Markand?"

"I am, indeed." The smile stretched a bit.

"My name is Braverman Shaw," Bravo said, holding out the glasses. "I found these among my late father's effects. Your name is on them so I assume you made them for him."

"You're Dexter Shaw's son?" Markand said with an odd brittleness. "I read about his untimely death. I'm so sorry for your loss." He seemed on the verge of saying something more, then thought better of it, biting his lip.

Bravo nodded his thanks. "I wonder if you could tell me anything about the glasses."

"What would you like to know?"

"The prescription, for instance."

Markand didn't bother to examine the lenses. "I can't, because I didn't grind them. Mr. Shaw's arrangement was with the technician who did grind them."

Bravo took back the glasses. "I'd like to speak to him."

"Her," he corrected. "I'm afraid she no longer works here."

"I see. And why is that? An altercation of some kind?"

"Not at all." Markand peered at Bravo for a moment, his lips pursed. "She just up and quit, without any notice, mind you. Young people, no manners at all, wouldn't you say?" He shook his head ruefully. "Damn shame, too, she was the best tech I'd ever had, and I've been in business almost thirty years. Take those glasses, for instance, the lenses are ground using a technique I couldn't even begin to guess at."

"When did she leave?" Bravo asked.

"Ten days ago, precisely. She walked out of here and didn't even bother to collect her back pay, either."

Ten days ago, Bravo thought. The day after my father died.

Markand frowned. "But she did leave me an envelope, said it was for you." His rather delicate hands rested on the glass countertop. "No offense, but would you mind showing me a picture ID? Just so I can be absolutely sure, you understand."

Bravo dug out his US driver's license. The optician nodded, then reached under the counter, unlocked a drawer and extracted a heavy vellum envelope, archaically sealed with red wax.

Opening the envelope, Bravo discovered a slip of paper on which was written an address in a clean feminine hand. He looked up to see the cadaverous optician regarding him with a tense smile.

"Good news, I trust?"

"That has yet to be determined," Bravo said as he folded away the paper.

The optician nodded. "Then there is nothing left, Mr. Shaw, but to wish you a good day."

The moment Bravo left his shop, Markand turned, and with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, went back into his office. It was opposite the grinding lab and smelled of heated sand and plastic, and now something more. Donatella lounged in the swivel chair behind his desk, her wide lips forming a half smile that spoke of the kind of mystery that put dread into Markand's painfully thudding heart.

"You did well," she said. "He came just as you said he would."

"My granddaughter," the optometrist said. "I want her back."

"In time." Donatella sat up.

"If you've harmed her-"

"What?" Donatella's eyes grew flinty as she pushed the chair back and came around the side of the desk. "What will you do, Markand?" She laughed unkindly as she patted his cheek.

He couldn't help himself, but involuntarily tried to recoil. In a terrifyingly quick movement, she grabbed the back of his head.

"I would tell you not to worry, but, actually, you have a great deal to worry about, Markand. We haven't finished with you."

He closed his eyes and whimpered like a child.

Donatella, her face very close to his, shook him like a rag doll until his eyes popped open, wide and staring. She could see the whites all the way around, and this pleased her enormously. "You understand, don't you, that Angela's life is in your hands."

He shuddered, almost overwhelmed with nausea. There was something unspeakably offensive-evil, even-hearing his only granddaughter's name spoken by this creature. For that was how Markand had come to think of her-considerably less than human-a nightmare beast who, with her male counterpart, had stolen into his life and now held it hostage. His training meant nothing now; only Angela mattered. He would endure any humiliation or deprivation, he would sell the soul of everyone around him in order to ensure her safety.

"What do you want me to do now?" he said hoarsely.

Donatella placed a clamshell cell phone into his trembling hand and said, "Call him."

Markand opened the phone and dialed a local number. "He just left," he said when he heard Rossi's voice. "Of course I know where he's going, I already told you. Yes, I'm sure." He could feel the creature's eyes on him like the breath of a fanged beast, jaws gaping, and his bowels loosened.

Plunged in contemplation, Bravo walked back to the Four Seasons where he picked up a taxi. He told the driver to take him across the Potomac to Falls Church, Virginia. The address on the slip of paper was an old stone house with a steep slate-gray shingled roof on a quiet, tree-lined street. A surf of pink climbing roses decorated the white picket fence that enclosed the front yard, which was shaded by a Bradford pear tree on one side and a cut-leaf Japanese maple on the other. A thick four-foot privet hedge was planted up against the foundation. Between neat rows of sheared azalea, a moss-edged flagstone path led to a door lacquered blood-red.

The door opened even before he had a chance to ring the bell, revealing a slim, lovely young woman with cinnamon hair pulled back in a ponytail from her wide forehead and large gray eyes, slightly upturned at their outer corners. "Yes?" she said in a tense voice.

"I'm Bravo Shaw."

"What took you so long?" she said, making room for him to step inside.

The expected welcome draft of cool air did not come. In fact, despite the stone walls the interior of the house was quite warm, seemingly without any air stirring at all. He saw a polished wood floor, devoid of any carpets, a sofa of a nubbly umber fabric and two matching chairs, a glass coffee table with curved bronze legs, an oversized stone fireplace one might expect to find in a hunting lodge. Against one wall was an antique walnut breakfront, displaying plates and bowls behind diamond panes of glass, and on the other a large painting-a portrait in dark, brooding hues of a seated woman, young and arresting, her hands held loosely in her lap, her head thrown back almost in defiance, pale eyes regarding the viewer with a peculiar intensity; there was about her the intent of motion, as if she were an arrow in a drawn bow, about to catapult across the room.