Addis found a parking space on Connecticut Avenue, across from the Kennedy-Warren. It was one of the larger complexes in town. Built in the early 1930s, the art-deco building was a reminder of Washington’s grander days. Addis pictured society couples arriving for a dance at its ballroom. He imagined the excitement that filled the halls when the building was home to dozens of New Dealers busy rescuing the country, or, later on, when it housed the young go-getters of the Kennedy days. Now it was simply a place where yuppie lawyers, career bureaucrats, retired Foreign Service officers, and blue-haired widows lived. It had been years since Washington had a theme.

“What are we doing here?” Addis asked, as they entered the building.

“Follow me,” she said.

Anywhere.

Lancette approached the porter at the front desk. He was an older black man, sitting hunched over, his face in the sports section. Addis stood a few feet behind her.

“Hi, we’re from the White House,” she said. “On official business. This is where Dr. Charlie Walters lives, correct?”

He put down the paper. “Yes, ma’am.”

“He’s on assignment for the administration in Africa,” she said. “And we need access to his apartment and storage area. He asked me to retrieve some clothes and books. His assignment’s been extended.”

“Ma’am, we’re not permitted to let strangers into people’s apartments. Not unless the resident tells us first.”

“Well, this is unexpected,” she said. “Is the building manager here?”

“No, his little girl got sick. Real bad. A virus in her brain. So he’s at the hospital. Maybe he could let you in later.”

“Mister—”

“James, you can call me James.” He had a large growth on the side of his neck. Lancette made certain not to stare at it.

“James, you’re in charge, then?” she asked.

“Suppose you could say that.”

“Well, we don’t have much time. And I’d hate to have to call the hospital to get the building manager back here. But we have a flight going out tonight, and we promised Dr. Walters we’d send this material right away. He told me what to get. Look, here’s the cable he sent.”

She handed a piece of paper to the porter. Two janitors were standing inside the front door. They were arguing in Spanish. Addis’s Spanish was lousy, but he picked up a few words. They were fighting over whose turn it was to clean the dog shit from the front sidewalk.

“You see,” Lancette was saying, “we know where to look. And he said we should ask for Mr. Reynolds—I guess he’s the building manager, right?—and tell him it was okay to check his apartment and storage area.”

“Well, you know, we got this policy,” he said, as he read the cable.