First, a whacked-out CIA shrink, she thought, now a date with one of the big honchos in the community. Perhaps she should borrow a touch of Dr. Charlie Walters’s paranoia. Her mother’s voice sounded in her head: “You can never know if a chance is a good one or a bad one, so take it.” As Lancette had gotten older—and remained unmarried—her mother had become more daring in the advice she offered.

“Sure,” she said. “When?”

“Tonight? Tomorrow?”

She was free that evening. She was free most nights when she wasn’t being forced to Anacostia by a gun-toting colleague.

“Tomorrow looks good,” she said.

He suggested an expensive, well-known Cajun restaurant.

After she finished with Grayton, Lancette tried to do some work. An American banker had been gunned down, mob-style, in Moscow. Might he have been an agent? An asset? The Agency, she knew, had increased its contacts with business executives working overseas, especially in Russia. She considered which offices should be sent an ICEMAN request on this case.

It was hard to keep her mind on the task at hand. She was puzzling over her conversation with Walters. What, if anything, should she do in response? Should she inform Wenner? Tell him that she had been kidnaped by a CIA psychiatrist who claimed his ICEMAN report had been spiked? A report that contained vague information. Walters’s superiors would probably brand him as overly excitable—which Lancette could confirm—and argue that he was not reliable. Surely, they had some excuse, real or manufactured, to fall back on, should their handling of the report be questioned. Perhaps it would be best to determine first if Walters should be taken seriously.

She left her office and crossed the street to a Vietnamese restaurant. So many had sprouted in northern Virginia in the years after the war. The most loyal customers were former Company men and ex-military officers who gathered in these establishments to sop booze and repeat their stories of glory days in inglorious times. Four white-haired men—she recognized their made-in-the-military bearing—were shouting at each other at the 5THbar. She found the pay phone and dialed Walters’s number. This was not complete security, she knew. But better than none. A woman answered, and Lancette asked for Dr. Walters.

“He’s not in,” the woman said. “He’s on travel.”

“Oh, the Africa trip, right?” Lancette said. “I forgot.”

“He’s on travel,” she repeated. “Would you care to leave a message?”

“No.” She put the receiver down. Well, she thought, he had told her the truth about being packed off. Still, that did not provide much guidance.

She picked up a Washington phonebook.

“Fuckin’-A!” one of the men at the bar yelled. “I fucked her—not you! Remember you met her fucking sister at one of those pussy parties at the Duc Hotel after a cocktail thing at Mau’s.”