Dunne watched the Moroccan, not what was happening on stage. He recalled one of his first assignments as a cop in Atlanta. A stripper had failed to report to work for two days, and one of the other girls dropped by her place and persuaded the super to let her in the apartment. They found the stripper dead and naked in the kitchen. Every knife and sharp kitchen utensil she owned had been stuck into a different part of her. Dunne was the first officer on the scene. By the time he had arrived, the blood had seeped through the floorboards and begun to stain the ceiling of the apartment below. The case was easily solved. A detective went to the bar, asked a few questions, discovered the victim had a fan who came to see her every day. The detective, with Dunne and another officer, went to the suspect’s home and found him dead and bloody in the bathtub.

“Debbie, she’s a GW student, pre-med,” the bartender said to Dunne, eyeing the woman on the stage. “We got a few who are doing poli-sci. Imagine if they go into politics. Wish I could take photos, in case one of them becomes famous. Wouldn’t that be a fuckin’ kick? But boss-lady won’t let me.”

Dunne asked for another club soda.

“Sure, dude,” the bartender said.

Dunne hated being called that. He said nothing.

The Moroccan stayed for about an hour. Several of the dancers came over to his table after they finished their routines. He handed each a few bills. A regular. When the Moroccan called for his bill, Dunne paid his own. Then Dunne followed him out, putting on sunglasses before leaving the bar.

Dunne looked up and down the street; there was little pedestrian traffic. He walked up alongside the Moroccan.

“Mr. Al-Fusah?”

The Moroccan turned toward him. He had a thin moustache and blood-shot eyes.

“I’d like to speak with you a moment,” Dunne continued.

The Moroccan tried to step away from Dunne. But Dunne gripped the man’s arm. He pulled him closer.

“I am sorry, I am very busy now,” Al-Fusah said. He twisted to break free of Dunne. But Dunne held on firmly.

“I insist,” Dunne said. With his free hand, he pulled back his jacket to reveal a gun in a shoulder holster. “Just take a little walk with me.”

“I am a diplomat,” Al-Fusah protested. “You cannot do this to me.”

“Please,” Dunne said, “don’t make a scene—especially here, in front of …”

He tightened his grip, and Al-Fusah reluctantly began walking with him up Wisconsin Avenue.

“What of me do you want?” Al-Fusah asked.

Dunne put a finger to his lips.

They passed a few stores, and Dunne guided Al-Fusah down a set of steps and toward an empty baseball field. Al-Fusah came to a halt.

“I told you people before. To leave me alone.”

Dunne stood still.

“What people?”

“You people. You CIA.”