“I’ll demand that the president of GWU ensure that it is safe before you step into that building again,” Loren said.

She turned to Bob. “We were just leaving. Very nice to meet you, Bob.” Then she leaned over and kissed Lisa again. “Take care, honey. I’ll visit again tomorrow.”

“What a terrible ordeal,” Loren said to Pitt as they left the room and walked down the brightly lit hospital corridor to the elevator. “I’m so glad she is going to be all right.”

When all she got from Pitt was a slight nod in reply, she looked into his green eyes. They had a faraway look, one she had seen on many occasions, usually when Pitt was struggling to track down a lost shipwreck or decipher the mystery of some ancient documents.

“Where are you?” she finally prodded him.

“Lunch,” he replied cryptically.

“Lunch?”

“What time do most people eat lunch?” he asked.

She looked at him oddly. “Eleven-thirty to one, I suppose, for whatever that is worth.”

“I walked into the building just prior to the explosion. The time was ten-fi fteen, and our friend Bob was already having lunch,” he said with a skeptical tone. “And I’m pretty sure I saw him standing across the street looking like a spectator after the ambulance left with Lisa. He didn’t seem to show much concern that his coworker might be dead.”

“He was probably in a state of shock. You were probably in a state of shock, for that matter. And maybe he’s one of those guys that goes to work at five in the morning, so he’d be hungry for lunch by ten.” She gave him a skeptical look. “You’ll have to do better than that,” she added, shaking her head.

“I suppose you are right,” he said, grabbing her hand as they walked out of the hospital’s front door. “Who am I to argue with a politician?”

Chapter 17

17

ARTHUR JAMESON WAS TIDYING UP HIS MAHOG any desk when an aide knocked on the open door and walked in. The spacious but conservatively decorated office of the natural resources minister commanded an impressive view of Ottawa from its twenty-fi rst-fl oor perch in the Sir William Logan Building, and the aide couldn’t help but peek out the window as he approached the minister’s desk. Seated in a high-back leather chair, Jameson peered from the aide to an antique grandfather clock that was ticking toward four o’clock. Hopes of escaping the bureaucracy early vanished with the aide’s approaching footsteps.

“Yes, Steven,” the minister said, welcoming the twenty-something aide who faintly resembled Jim Carrey. “What do you have to sour my weekend?”