Dunne started his car and moved the Buick behind the BMW. The convertible raced through the pothole-filled streets of a neighborhood filled with embassies and grand houses. Dunne cursed the city administration with each alignment-ruining bump. At Massachusetts Avenue, the BMW turned right. It drove past the mosque and made a left after the Naval Observatory.

Dunne followed closely in the noontime traffic. The BMW stopped on Wisconsin Avenue at a stretch of restaurants, bars, and shops. Its driver parked in a no-standing zone. Diplomatic immunity, Dunne thought.

Dunne double-parked a few cars behind the BMW and watched the Moroccan cross the street and enter a bar with no windows. A parking space opened up down the street. Dunne guided his car next to the meter. As he got out, he dug into his pockets. No change. He’d have to take the ticket. And there would be a ticket, for the one thing the city did well was enforce parking laws.

Dunne entered the bar. Only a few patrons were present—a couple at the bar, a few at tables in front of a low stage. Still, the air was heavy with smoke. The lights were low. A woman wearing only garters was at the edge of the stage and leaning forward. Dunne did not look closely. Generic disco music was playing. He spotted the Moroccan at a table near the stage. Dunne sat at the bar.

“No one’s at the door, mister, but we still got a five-dollar cover,” the bartender said. He was a skinny fellow, in his thirties, with long thin black hair that fell below his shoulder blades.

Dunne put a five on the counter.

“And a two-drink minimum,” the bartender said.

“A club soda,” Dunne said.

“Got to charge you as much as a mixed drink.”

“Fine.”

The Moroccan ordered a drink from the waitress, a black woman with a 1970s-style Afro who was wearing stiletto heels and a one-piece body suit matching the color of her skin. He rubbed her backside as she left.