Next, the Directorate of Administration—the bureaucrats who ran the Agency. Payroll, personnel, promotions, the physical plant—these people could be working for any major corporation. They cut the checks, balanced the books, made the trains run. They could tell you how much a division spent but not what it did. Her rule was to turn to the paperpushers last. Department by department, she read the notices they had sent her—nothing, nothing, nothing.

But one response was missing: DA/MA/P.

She looked up the bureaucratic designation: Directorate of Administration, Medical Administration, Psychiatric. She reviewed the transmission of her original memo. It had been received. She looked at the clock on her computer screen. The report was now one hour and seven minutes overdue.

The television showed people gathering in Lafayette Park, across from the White House. A wild-eyed fellow holding a Bible was standing on a chair and shouting into the crowd. She kept the sound off. Flags waved slowly. A series of teary mourners talked into a microphone thrust in front of their faces, saying something for posterity. An old Latino man wearing an Army uniform—World War II vintage—and bedecked with medals held a framed portrait of Hanover that was covered by a thin black veil.

Lancette picked up the phone. She punched in an extension.

“73653,” a voice said.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m trying to trace a report that I should have received from your office.”

The woman on the other end did not reply.

“Oh, this is DCI/SS/E&IR,” Lancette said. “If you check the SecNet transmissions, confirmation number 576392, you’ll see—”

“Hold a moment.”

She looked at the TV screen. Two days ago, the killer had walked through this square. She knew that from the news reports. The preliminary investigation had found that he had booked a room at the Mayflower under what appeared to be a false name: Max Bridge. That he had shot the reporter he later impersonated and a Georgetown University student. That he then spent the entire night in the room with the two corpses. The next day, he put on his disguise, left the hotel, strolled through this park now full of mourners. And … according to the official reports, his true identity still had not been established.

“This is Dr. Stan Blum,” a new voice said. “I must apologize. I knew you’d be calling. You see, I just took over the office. Just a few days ago. Did you know Dr. Killigren?”

“No,” she said.