She was taken into a conference room and was offered water and juice, but nothing to write on or with. She’d done background interviews with CIA personnel before, of course, and it was standard that she took no notes. Still . . . tonight’s surprise pickup, the drive in the Mercedes, the sterile conference room on the legendary seventh floor . . . To Catherine this all had an air of stagecraft about it, and she wondered if the information she was soon to be given would be similarly manipulated.

Carmichael entered wearing a light gray suit and a burgundy tie. His tight face and his closely cropped salt-and-pepper hairstyle made him look to Catherine like a cross between Abe Lincoln and an emu. He offered a handshake but no smile, and she immediately detected a somber air about him. She wondered if he was going to speak about his close personal friendship with Max Ohlhauser. Catherine doubted the two men had been close; the rumors were that Denny didn’t even really like his kids, so she didn’t imagine he’d think much of some ex–chief legal council for his Agency, but from his solemn greeting she supposed he was here to talk about today’s events with an eye for carrying the right tone of grief throughout the meeting.

Carmichael was not a charmer. He didn’t ask about her at all, other than to open the conversation with, “You and I met once.”

The two sat down at the conference table, with Carmichael at the head and King on his immediate left.

Catherine said, “That’s right. In Baghdad. One of Saddam’s palaces. You were having coffee with Jordan Mayes. I forced my way to your table and introduced myself. You were pleasant, but you couldn’t wait to get away from me.”

A nod from Carmichael, though she half expected him to deny the charge. Instead he said, “And here I am, summoning you to me tonight. Times change.”

“I was told by the man you sent to collect me that you have agreed to my interview request. On deep background, of course.”

“Yes. I don’t usually do this, but events of the past few days warrant it.”

“I think it’s best for the Agency to get out ahead of the story.”

“You’ve been tough on my Agency in the past, but fair. More or less.”

She ignored the last part and replied, “And I assure you I will be fair now.”

Carmichael nodded. “I know you were already working on a story about the death of Lee Babbitt, even before this dreadful thing happened this afternoon.”

“That’s right. Going back to the events last Saturday in Washington Highlands on Brandywine Street. This was curious to us, because it seemed as if CIA was interested in the homicide there, which happened forty-eight hours before the death of Mr. Babbitt.”

“What do you know about the terrorist loose in the District?” Denny asked.