Addis glanced at Hynes-Pierce. His usual smirk was not present. There was anger in the reporter’s eyes.

“You people are …” Hynes-Pierce grasped for the right word. “Thugs.”

The Englishman turned up 17th Street.

From his pocket, Addis pulled out a short wire service report: “Accountant Found Dead; Apparent Suicide Once Worked for Hanovers.” He read the item. That morning, a homeless man found Harris Griffith dangling against the rear of the building that housed his office. He was dead. His feet were four feet above the ground. The rope around his neck was tied to a radiator in his office.

Addis’s shirt was getting sticky. Instead of returning through the northern gate, he entered the Old Executive Office Building. He hurried down a hallway. A memory struck him: It was from the first month of the administration. He and O’Connor were in this corridor. They passed a men’s room. You know what someone told me? she had asked. This is where what’s-his-name peed right before he approved the Watergate break-in. They laughed the laugh of winners.

Shit, get the fuck away from me.

Addis took a flight of steps to the basement. He found the office he wanted: Computer Services. A young woman was sitting at a desk. Her face glowed when she saw him.

“Do you have backups of computer phone messages?” he asked.

“We’re supposed to,” she said. “Ever since we lost that lawsuit. You should see all the work we have to do to keep track of everything … . Do you want to? I could show you our big boys in the back. They’re really something.” She stood up.

“No, thank you. But could you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” she said.

“And I’m curious,” he added, “if you retrieve something that’s been lost, is there a computer record that the material has been retrieved?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I want to leave a trace of the search. You’re supposed to, and that’s what automatically happens. But there are ways around it … . Sure you don’t want to see the computers in the back?”

“Okay,” he said. “But I only have a minute or two.”

“Won’t take long.” She smiled again. “My name is Amy.”

Addis stood at a pay phone inside the Washington Connection, a restaurant across the street from the OEOB. He dialed a series of numbers. Then he looked at the pay phone and punched in another set. Addis hung up and waited.

An old woman, who was walking with a cane, asked to use the telephone. Addis explained he was expecting a return call.

“I have to call about a doctor’s appointment,” she said.

“Please,” he replied. “Just a minute. It’s important.”

“Don’t they give you people cell phones?”

And they can monitor their use. Now, fuck off, please.

“Yes they do. But we’re not supposed to use them for every call.”