I waited until Nick was long gone, vanished into the rain-slicked night as silently and stealthily as he’d come, before I cleaned up our picnic and moved the furniture back where I’d found it. By the time I walked across the alley to Max’s place just before three, the rain had tapered to a light drizzle. I restored the key to its spot above the doorjamb and let myself into my own apartment and went straight to the tower bedroom. When I finally fell asleep, Nick’s scent, which had stayed on my skin and embedded itself in the fabric of my clothes, filtered into my dreams. For what remained of the night, we were both on the run from faceless men who chased us and would not give up.
My phone rang at eight o’clock, the noise slicing through my druggy sleep. I sat up in bed and wondered where I was and what day it was.
“Soph? Are you all right?” Grace asked. “Did I wake you? I figured you’d be getting ready for work. Sorry I’m calling so early. We were out of town all day yesterday . . . this is the first chance I’ve had to call back.”
My message yesterday . . . what was it? I climbed out of bed and opened the curtains. Last night’s storm had blown away the clouds, leaving behind a clear pale blue sky. Then I remembered: I wanted to ask Grace about Jenna Paradise, Scott Hathaway’s girlfriend, who had vanished without a trace.
“I’m fine, Gracie . . . I slept through my alarm. It’s a good thing you woke me up.”
“What’s going on?”
I told her and asked if she knew anyone at the MPD who might be willing to look into a cold case.
“A priest friend of Jack’s from Georgetown told me Scott Hathaway was questioned by the police after Jenna Paradise disappeared. His father, who was a big shot lawyer, flew to D.C. and intervened, so that was the end of the questioning. I wondered what happened to the investigation,” I said. “There must have been a report.”
“Thirty years is a long time ago,” she said. “Look, I’m taking a detective who helps me out from time to time to breakfast this morning. I’ll ask him, but don’t hold your breath.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”
“I doubt it,” she said. “I don’t think I’ll find out anything. But if I do, I’ll let you know.”
Baz called next, while I was finishing breakfast. Unknown caller. This time, I recognized the phone number.
“I just wanted to hear your voice, love,” he said. “And to apologize for rushing you out the door yesterday. Sorry about that call . . . I had to take it. You know how it is.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” I said. “I know you’re busy. How was your dinner last night?”
“Long and dull,” he said. “Listen, darling, I thought I’d check in and ask if you’ve had any word from our boy?”
You can’t tell Baz or anyone else you saw me. I don’t trust anyone except you.
That was the real reason he was calling, to ask about Nick. I said, smooth as silk, “No. Nothing.”
“Keep me posted, will you, Sophie? Make sure you let him know I’m there to help.”
“Of course,” I said. “Have a safe trip home. And give my love to Isabella.”
“I shall,” he said. “Cheerio.”
I hung up and cleared away my breakfast dishes. Was it my imagination, or had Baz been fishing because he knew Nick was in town?
More important, had I been a convincing enough liar?
* * *
I got dressed for work, found my IPS press badge, which Perry never asked me to turn in, and called Luke.
“I thought I’d cover Taras Attar’s book signing at the Library of Congress,” I said. “It starts at noon.”
I waited during the long silence on his end, guessing he already knew he couldn’t tell me not to do it. Still, he sounded irked.
“First, I think you need to be accredited, and second, we’re not a news agency.”
“I think I can swing the accreditation and I know we’re not. But I’d like to do it.”
“I could use you here. I got a voice mail from someone at the Turkish embassy who wants to talk about a project. She asked me to give her a call to set up a meeting at my earliest convenience,” he said. “And Roxanne Hathaway’s people went into high gear. A huge package of historical photographs arrived first thing this morning. We really don’t have time for something no one asked us to do.”
“I’ll be in as soon as the signing’s finished. I promise.”
When he hung up I knew he was mad. I nearly called him back, but I’d already decided to do this, and I’d probably only get him more irritated and spun up. I rode the Vespa to the IPS Washington bureau on DeSales Street next door to ABC News and a block from St. Matthew’s. The bureau chief was a short brunette named Monica who was a good friend of Perry’s.
“I heard you laid off two shooters on Friday,” I said, “so I know you’re short staffed. You got anyone covering Taras Attar’s book signing on Capitol Hill?”
She looked at me like I’d just dropped in from a remote planet. “Are you kidding? We’ve now got precisely one and a half people covering the entire Hill. You can bet your ass no one’s going to be covering a book signing.”
I wondered who the half person was and said, “Then let me do it. Can you get me in?”
“What’s so special about this one?”
“Senator Hathaway’s sponsoring it and the Russian embassy is furious. It might be newsworthy.”
“We haven’t got any money. You’d have to do it on spec.”
“I just want the accreditation.”
She shrugged with a look that said, It’s your funeral, made a call, and found me talking to a reporter I knew from a couple of TDY rotations in London.
“Medina,” Monica said. “Get going. You’re on the list.”
* * *
Half an hour later I chained the Vespa to a streetlamp on 2nd Street behind the Supreme Court and walked over to the Library of Congress. It had turned into a spectacular early autumn day, the light breeze a warm caress on my skin and the kind of sharp sunshine that made colors so vivid they hurt your eyes. The Capitol dome looked like a cutout pasted on a perfect cobalt sky.
The bronze doors to the library were closed and signs outside on the plaza informed all visitors they needed to use the old carriage entrance on the lower level. As I walked down the broad granite staircase, a limousine pulled into the narrow drive, stopping under the portico. Scott Hathaway’s bulky driver got out and went around to open the rear passenger door. I expected Hathaway to emerge, but instead Taras Attar, in a well-cut double-breasted suit and red tie, was the only one who got out. He took off his sunglasses and checked something on his phone.
I stopped to watch him. Even after thirty years it wasn’t hard to imagine Attar and Hathaway cutting a wide swath through the female population of Georgetown as Father Pat had said. But where Scott Hathaway was the all-American golden boy your mother wanted you to marry, Attar was the one you wanted to know: dark and dangerous looking with the hardened features—hawklike nose, firm mouth, penetrating eyes—of a warrior-king.
“I’ll expect to find you here when I’m finished,” Attar said to the chauffeur as Napoleon Duval, also dressed like a New York banker, got out of a second car that had pulled up behind the limousine.
“Yes, sir.” The driver nodded and took a handkerchief out of his pocket as he sneezed and blew his nose. As he hustled Attar into the building, Duval looked up and noticed me hanging over the railing. He gave me a grim nod and followed Attar inside.
By the time I passed through the metal detector and had my equipment bag searched and my credentials checked, Attar and Duval were vanishing into an elevator with an ascetic-looking man in a pale gray suit.
“The book signing has been moved from the Main Reading Room to the Members Room off the Great Hall,” the security guard said to me. “Up the stairs and take the corridor to your right.”
I nodded. “I know where it is. Thanks.”
Much of the federal architecture of Washington pays homage to the ancient Greek and Roman civilizations because the Founding Fathers, who saw temples like the Parthenon in Athens and the Roman Pantheon as symbols of democracy and liberty, wanted their new capital to reflect those same ideals. But by the time plans for the Library of Congress were drawn up in the late 1800s during the Gilded Age, its architects chose the elaborate Paris Opera House as their inspiration, building a lavish, richly decorated Italian Renaissance–style palace of mosaics, paintings, and statuary depicting mythology, legend, and flesh-and-blood icons of poetry and literature.
The Members of Congress Room was a dark, elegant jewel with heavy paneling, coffered frescoed ceilings, Oriental carpets, and two enormous marble fireplaces at opposite ends of the room that could have been plucked from the residence of a Venetian prince. Today rows of red velvet chairs facing a podium had been placed in front of one of the fireplaces. It looked like they were expecting a good crowd; I counted roughly one hundred seats. A table with neat piles of copies of Growing Up Among the Holy Shadows of the Dead by Taras Attar stacked on it, a small bar, and a buffet table with platters of sandwiches, cheese, fruit, and cookies were at the other end of the room. A few people had already taken their seats, but most of the invitation-only guests from the library, the Hill, and the State Department were enjoying the free lunch and a glass of wine.
Except for a young woman manning a camera for C-SPAN’s Book TV and a gray-haired reporter in a navy blazer, T-shirt, jeans, and red high-tops from the AP, I was the only member of the press. I staked a place between two windows with views of the House of Representatives across the street and made a couple of test shots.
“Where is everybody?” I asked the AP reporter, whose name was Keith. “Nobody else is covering this after the blowup the other night between Senator Hathaway and the Russian ambassador over Hathaway sponsoring this book signing?”
“I think it lost a lot of traction when Hathaway pulled out,” he said.
“What are you talking about? He did what?”
He scratched behind his ear and shrugged. “Our Senate correspondent says Hathaway plans to give a floor speech later today that’s probably going to throw Attar under a bus. Reaffirm our relationship with Russia, dating back to our days as allies in World War II.”
Hathaway had decided to placate Yuri Orlov at the expense of his old friend Taras Attar? “Are you serious?” I said.
“I wonder when Attar found out,” I said.
“Here he comes now. You can ask him yourself.”
Taras Attar looked stone-faced and subdued, so I didn’t need to ask when he learned Hathaway decided not to show. The ascetic-looking gray-suited man who had greeted Attar at the door also had walked in with him, followed by Napoleon Duval. Duval surveyed the room, placing himself next to the doorway, hands clasped in front of his waist.
“That’s Gregory Feinstein, the library’s European Division director,” Keith said, indicating the man in the gray suit. “Guess he’s introducing Attar.”
On cue, Feinstein stepped up to the podium and said into the microphone, “Will everyone please take a seat so we can begin?”
Two more sober-suited men—probably diplomatic security—had taken up posts on either side of the far door down by the bookseller and the food and drinks. I glanced at Duval, but he looked implacable, scanning the audience while people slowly made their way to the chairs at the front of the room.
As Attar moved to the podium, he, too, surveyed the crowd. When his eyes fell on me, I caught the tiny flash of surprise before he smiled and nodded. I smiled back without looking at Duval who, I knew, was probably making a mental list of questions as to how, where, and when I’d met Taras Attar.
Gregory Feinstein gave a short, thoughtful talk that steered clear of politics and focused on Attar’s book. As Attar acknowledged the audience’s applause, a waiter walked through the doorway with a bottle of water and started to pass it to Attar.
“I’ll take that,” Duval said.
The waiter looked annoyed, but he gave Duval the bottle and left. A moment later he entered the room through the far door and took his place at the bar. Duval unscrewed the cap and set the water bottle on the podium.
Taras Attar’s half-hour talk was sprinkled with references to philosophy, poetry, and history as he spoke about his book, about Abadistan, and, most poignantly, about how Russian influence was gradually erasing the culture of the Abadi people until eventually it would disappear and they would live, as Alexander the Great once said, among the holy shadows of the dead. I only knew Abadistan through the dystopian filter of what Nick had told me, but I had been in enough places like it to understand the Darwinian order of life and the transmogrifying effect so much hardship, poverty, and corruption had on people who were desperate to survive. Beneath Attar’s poetic eloquence, I was pretty sure beat the calculating heart of a cold-eyed realist who had made concessions to the Shaika and whoever else he needed to, or he would not be in the position of leadership he now occupied.
Crowne Energy’s discovery of oil and the promise of vast fortunes to be made by whoever owned that land would change everything. As Perry told me once during yet another custody battle with an ex-wife, “Blood is thicker than water, but money is thicker than blood.” Once it was known just how much oil had been found in a godforsaken corner of nowhere, there would be plenty of blood. Nick knew that better than I did, but there was no turning back the clock now: They couldn’t undiscover oil.
There was a burst of applause as Attar finished talking and thanked the audience. Fifteen minutes into the question-and-answer session, Keith, the AP reporter, gave me a sideways look and raised his hand.
“Dr. Attar, I understand Senator Hathaway plans to deliver a speech on the Senate floor later today on U.S.-Russian relations and our strong support for that country. Also he isn’t here with you even though he’s responsible for arranging this event,” Keith said. “Do you perceive this as a slap in the face to Abadistan and what impact will his actions have on your personal relationship?”
Taras gave him a tight smile. “No and none,” he said. “Any other questions?”
Gregory Feinstein stepped up to the podium, coming to his rescue. “I’m sorry, Dr. Attar, but that will have to be the last question so we have time for the book signing. A representative from the library’s bookstore is selling Growing Up Among the Holy Shadows of the Dead at the back of the room. I hope everyone will purchase a copy.”
There was more applause as Feinstein led Attar to a heavy wooden table with legs that were carved like enormous eagles.
“Are you sticking around?” Keith asked me.
“For a while. I want to get a few more pictures. Then I’m going to buy his book and ask him to sign it,” I said. “What about you?”
“I’m going to see if I can nudge him again about Hathaway,” he said.
“Good luck.”
The room had started to clear out. Duval left his place by the doorway and now stood directly behind Attar. I walked back to the bookseller’s table and purchased my book. Though the buffet table had been thoroughly scavenged, there was still punch in the punch bowl. I helped myself while a couple of waiters removed empty food trays and cleared up the debris of used plates and glasses.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. A text message from Luke.
Going to Katya G press conference at Nat Gall. They want photos. Text me when you’re done at LC.
If Katya Gordon was holding a press conference, she was probably going to finally announce that Arkady Vasiliev had purchased the surprises for the Blue Tsarevich Constellation egg. I slipped the phone back into my pocket and walked up to Attar’s signing table as Keith waved to me on his way out. The Book TV reporter was gone, too.
Attar was gathering up his notes, preparing to leave. When he saw me holding a book, he stopped and picked up a pen.
“Sophie,” he said, smiling. “What a pleasant surprise. You’re very kind to buy the book. How shall I sign it?”
“I’m looking forward to reading it. Please sign it to me,” I said. “And it’s Medina. M-e-d-i-n-a.”
He wrote something that I couldn’t read upside down and signed his name with a bold scrawl across the title page. As he handed it to me, I said, “What’s next for you?”
“I’m going back to Scott and Roxanne’s after this,” he said. “Then I fly home tonight.”
If he was leaving today, I wondered whether he had already spoken to Nick or if their meeting hadn’t yet taken place.
“I hope you have a safe trip.”
“Thank you. Do you think it would be possible to have copies of the photos you took today? They would be nice souvenirs.”
“Give me a way to contact you and I’ll send them,” I said.
He pulled a leather cardholder out of his inside jacket pocket and wrote something on the back of a business card. “My private e-mail address,” he said. “Use that.”
“Thank you.”
I turned around to leave, distracted by reading what he’d written on the card, and collided with one of the waiters.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
It was the waiter who brought Attar the bottle of water. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing,” he said in a flat, toneless voice. “No problem.”
He was Russian.
It’s nothing, no problem. In Russian, he would have said nichevo.
I stared hard at him and heard Ali saying, What a klutz I am, I’m so sorry, when she bumped into this same waiter the other night. And then I remembered that monotone voice telling the American in the conference room to keep his mouth shut and everything would be okay. No problem.
“I’ve met you before,” I said. “You were at the National Gallery the other night.”
“You are mistaken.” His eyes were so pale they seemed colorless, but they held barely controlled anger. “It must have been someone else.”
I looked over at Duval. “This guy,” I said. “He’s the one I overheard.”
The waiter didn’t hesitate. He shoved me hard, ramming me into the heavy table Attar had used for the book signing and took off. Attar’s book flew out of my hands and landed on the floor.
I saw the flash of Duval’s gun as he shouted to the other dark-suited men who had already started to move. “Get him. I’m staying with Warrior.”
There was commotion in the hallway outside the Members Room and men shouting. Duval spoke into the parakeet microphone on his shoulder. “Send backup and get the car. Warrior’s safe. Move it.”
Gregory Feinstein helped me up as Duval said to the three of us, “Stay right here until we get this guy.”
“Are you all right, miss?” Feinstein asked me. “He threw you pretty hard against that table.”
I felt my ribs, which I knew would be bruised and sore later on. My head throbbed when I nodded. “I’m okay.”
“They got him,” Duval was saying. “All right, we’re going to move.”
Two uniformed Capitol Hill police officers and two more men in dark suits showed up so speedily that I figured they must have been waiting outside because Attar’s evacuation plans had already been worked out.
Attar took my elbow and leaned close to me. “How do you know that man?” he asked in a soft voice.
He seemed surprisingly calm and composed.
“I overheard two men talking the night of Arkady Vasiliev’s reception at the National Gallery,” I said. “It sounded like they were talking about you. I told Agent Duval . . . When that waiter spoke just now, I recognized his voice and I remembered him from the reception.”
Attar gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Vasiliev? Well, then, I suppose they wanted to kill me?”
“It sounded like one of them did.”
“Then I must thank you for your intervention,” he said.
“Sophie.” Duval gave me a warning look. He’d been following our conversation and I knew what he meant.
Don’t mention Hathaway.
“You should thank Agent Duval,” I said.
Duval turned to Attar. “Go with these men, please, sir, and do exactly as they say.” To me he said, “You stay right here.”
Attar murmured something to Duval that sounded like thanks as he left the room flanked by bodyguards.
Gregory Feinstein looked shaken. “What just happened?”
“Nothing,” Duval said. “Fortunately. But my people need to talk to the head of that catering company about that waiter. Give me a minute alone with Ms. Medina.”
“Of course.” Feinstein walked back to talk to the remaining catering staff, who looked like they were in shock.
“You knew about the waiter?” I asked.
“We weren’t entirely sure until a few minutes ago,” Duval said. “Attar never drank that bottle of water, by the way.”
“You switched them?”
He nodded.
“What about the other guy, the American?” I asked. “Where is he? Who is he?”
Duval gave me a rueful smile. “You were right about his employer. The only person from Hathaway’s staff who showed up today.”
He waited for me to figure it out.
“The chauffeur,” I said. “He had a cold . . . he was sneezing. I thought the guy I heard had allergies.”
“He managed to give us a good enough description of the waiter when we picked him up in the parking lot,” he said.
“What about Hathaway?” I said. “The chauffeur said he was involved, too.”
“Tell me how that part of the conversation went,” Duval said. “Tell me exactly what you heard.”
My head ached and so did my ribs. “I think the chauffeur said something like, ‘You expect me to believe Hathaway is going to go along with this crackpot idea.’ ”
“To which the waiter replied?”
Duval waited for me to think it through. “He told the chauffeur he couldn’t back out because he’d already been paid and he knew too much.”
“But the waiter never said, ‘You’re right, Hathaway’s going to go along with it,’ did he?” Duval said. “He let the chauffeur believe what he wanted.”
“Are you saying that Senator Hathaway’s not involved?”
“Senator Hathaway gave us complete access to his staff’s personnel records once we went to him. He cooperated fully.”
“He still didn’t show up today,” I said.
“I can’t go into the politics of that decision,” Duval said. “Look, you’re free to go.”
He left before I did.
I packed up my camera, and by the time I left through the carriage entrance, I knew my walking-wounded status was going to slow me down getting back to the Vespa. Grace called while I was waiting at the light at East Capitol and 1st Streets.
“Sometimes you get lucky,” she said. “My detective buddy was a brand-new cop walking a beat in Georgetown when Jenna Paradise went missing. He’s never forgotten the case. Apparently she was gorgeous. He said they never found her and it’s still on the books as open-unsolved. The last concrete information they had was an interview with her roommate, who said Jenna took off on her bike to meet a friend. She and the friend were going for a run on one of the trails down by the canal. After that she disappeared. No body, no bicycle, nada.”
“Who was the friend?” I asked.
“The roommate didn’t know. Jenna kept her business to herself.”
“What about the bicycle?” I said. “Is there a description of it in the report?”
“Can you ask your detective friend if Jenna’s bike had handlebars that looked like a ram’s horns?”
“I will if you tell me why.”
“Right now I can’t, but I will,” I said. “Word of honor. Please, Grace?”
She let out a long breath. “I can’t believe I’m saying yes, but okay. Then you tell me everything. Got it?”
“Yes. It’s just a hunch,” I said. “Once I’m sure, I’ll tell you what I know.”
I disconnected as the light changed and crossed East Capitol. If I was right, Scott Hathaway had intimate knowledge of what had happened to Jenna Paradise, and Katya Gordon had the photos to prove it, or at least she’d possessed them for the last thirty years until she gave them to Hathaway the other night.
In return for what? What did she want from Hathaway that was significant enough to make her hand over such incriminating photos? Duval seemed to think Hathaway wasn’t involved in the plot to assassinate Taras Attar, but maybe there was more to that story. Katya Gordon knew things about Hathaway that would end his career, maybe even result in criminal charges being brought against him.
Whatever bargain Hathaway and Katya had struck, was it something compelling enough to commit murder for? And if so, perhaps not for the first time.