God, she was beautiful, even when she was skeptical. What is it exactly, he wondered. Her blue eyes? They were set perfectly apart. Her nose—not too big, not too small. The lips were a little full, but that only sealed the deal.

Her face was unblemished and, surprisingly given her job, unwrinkled. And her breasts—not large, actually, but high and seemingly firm under her very proper blouse.

“Thank you for your time,” said Gregor, starting to rise.

“You said that someone may have checked the video cameras,” said Nuri. “I’d like to look at them myself. And the funeral. Was there anything unusual about the funeral?”

“Only the flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“The dead roses. It is not clear whether they were deliberate or not.”

“Would you happen to know the shop that sent them?” he asked.

A dozen black, withered roses had been sent to the funeral. The state of the roses wasn’t a matter of poor service—they’d been ordered that way.

Nuri talked Frau Gerste into taking him to the shop to see the owner. He was hoping Gregor would beg off because of her allegedly heavy schedule, but no such luck—she not only came, but insisted on driving. That left him in the back, slowly getting intoxicated on the scent of Frau Gerste’s perfume.

The scent was hard to describe. A kind of exotic lilac thing. Spicy, yet sweet.

Like her, no doubt. He wondered what kind of lingerie she preferred.

“It’s not the strangest order he’s ever had, especially for a funeral,” Frau Gerste translated as they interviewed the owner of the small shop. “One time he had to make a delivery with several mice’s heads. He doesn’t like to do it, but for the extra fee…”

“Can I get a copy of the invoice, or order, or whatever?” asked Nuri.

“I can’t order him to give it,” said Gerste.

“But he could give it to us voluntarily, right?” he asked.

“The laws regarded evidence in court—”

“But they apply to you,” said Nuri. “Not me. And if I then made a copy available to you…”

“I don’t know…”

“If the information came from the FBI,” suggested Gregor, “then it would be usable.”

“Hmmmmph,” said Frau Gerste.

The order had come through an e-mail system. The owner printed it out. Nuri took it, then asked if there was a small office where he could use the phone. He wanted privacy, not the line—he pulled the headset for the MY-PID out and connected to the computer network.

“Good morning, Nuri,” said the computer.

“Working on the personality modules again?” asked Nuri.

“Please repeat request.”

“I need this order tracked.” Nuri read in the particulars. The computer took several seconds before telling him that the order had come from a shop in Naples.

“Any known mafia connection?” asked Nuri.

It was another few seconds before the computer answered. The shop’s owners had been named in two different indictments related to La Costra Nostra.

When Nuri came out of the office, Frau Gerste and Gregor were nodding solemnly as the owner of the shop told them, in German, about the fine points of caring for freshly cut flowers. It was all in the water, he said, and in the angle of the cut.

Nuri would have been content to let the conversation continue—it gave him a good chance to watch Frau Gerste surreptitiously—but Gregor noticed him gawking and abruptly asked him if he’d discovered anything.

“Definitely a mafia connection with the flowers,” he said. “It reinforces the revenge theory.”

“Perhaps,” said Frau Gerste, sighing just a little.

7

Washington, D.C.

“Senator, I hate to say this, but you’re going to be late for the White House. Again. I know you’re only going in Senator Tompkins’s place, but—”

“I’m on my way, Clarissa.” Senator Jeffrey “Zen” Stockard smiled at his appointments secretary, Clarissa Tomey. “But I have a reputation to maintain.”

“For being late?”

“You got it.”

“They blame me, you know,” said the secretary. “I’m sure they hate me.”

“Broad shoulders,” said Zen, wheeling himself past her desk. “Jason? Where the hell are you?” he said in mock anger. “You’re late. Late again.”

“Uh, Senator, I’m right here, sir,” said Jason Black, who was standing at the door. “I’ve been, uh, waiting.”

“No alibis, Jay. We all know it’s your fault.”

“Um, yes sir.”

Zen laughed. He loved teasing his staff, especially Black, who was only a year removed from college.

“Can I trust you at the White House?” Zen asked as he rolled his wheelchair down the hall. “Coming in with me?”

“Um, uh, yes, Senator. I, uh—my tie’s clean.”

“You like seeing the President, don’t you? Or at least that cute intern they have from the NSC that’s always winking at you when we go over there.”

Zen glanced up at Black, who was turning beet red.

“Hey, Zen,” said Senator Dirks, approaching down the hall. “Got a minute?”

“Damned if I don’t, but take it anyway,” said Zen. Dirks was from the other party, but the two got along personally and even on occasion voted the same way. In fact, Dirks had been one of the early supporters of Zen’s bill to establish a scholarship program reimbursing college graduates who joined the service as officers after graduation. The bill had just passed the Senate that morning.

“Have you heard what happened to Senator Osten?” asked Dirks.

“No,” said Zen. Al Osten was the ranking senator on the Foreign Relations Committee. “I’m on my way to the White House. He’s going to be there.”

“No,” said Dirks. “They just took him in an ambulance. I was right there. They think he was having a heart attack.”

“Wow.”

“The paramedics were here right away. Still, you don’t know at his age.”

“That’s terrible.”

Both men frowned. Even though Dirks and Osten were from different parties, as senators they were fellow members of the most exclusive club in the world.

“I was hoping we could grab lunch at some point,” said Dirks. “I wanted to talk about the Air Force appropriations for their new jets. Maybe sometime this week?”

“Sure. Have your staff set it up with Clarissa,” said Zen. “Better yet—the Nationals are in town. What do you say about a game?”

“Now we’re talking,” said Dirks. “I’ll check the calendar.”

“Don’t check too hard,” said Zen. “Thanks for your vote today, by the way.”

“It’s a good bill. Now all you need is House support. And your President.”

“I’m working on it,” said Zen. The President was anything but his President. Even though they were from the same party, Christine Mary Todd and Zen often found themselves at loggerheads.

Which made him a little suspicious an hour later, when she seemed overly profuse as he entered the Oval Office with Jason Black in tow.

“Here is Senator Stockard,” she said, without a trace of sarcasm. “Fresh from his victory on the floor.”

“Congratulations, Zen,” said Secretary of Defense Charles Lovel. “It’s a good bill.”

“Thank you,” said Zen. “Thank you, Ms. President.”

Zen nodded at Secretary of State Alistair Newhaven and National Security Advisor Michael Blitz, who were seated in a semicircle in front of the President’s desk. Zen wheeled himself next to Newhaven, while Black joined the aides near the side of the room.

“Have you heard anything about Senator Osten?” asked the President. “His staff told us he was taken to the hospital as a precaution.”