Lancette walked by the concrete planters placed behind the Supreme Court; it was as if they were designed by the city planners in charge of East Berlin during the communist years. Wasn’t there a less unsightly way to protect government buildings from foreign terrorists and made-in-the-USA antigovernment extremists? In recent years, these planters had sprouted throughout Washington like weeds. Streets had been closed, traffic rerouted, metal detectors installed in federal offices. Had anyone, she wondered, bothered to study the health effects of repeated exposure to those machines? Maybe we’re all being zapped to death by security precautions. A guard patrolling the perimeter of the court smiled at her. The Cold War done, and we need to hide behind half-ton plant holders. Go figure.

The genealogy room at the Library of Congress was empty when she entered and took a seat. It was near closing time. A note from a stranger and here she was at a secret rendezvous. Her very first. She wasn’t sure why she had decided to come. A change in routine? Curiosity? The possibility she’d get a story to tell out of this? Her family used to press her for details of what they imagined to be her clandestine exploits as a modern-day Mata Hari. But the only danger she had faced in the Agency came from office politics. The CIA, a paper-pushing bureaucracy? Who wanted to hear about that? But it was the Agency she knew. And no one had ever made a movie about that reality.

Lancette skimmed through a newspaper. On the front page was a photograph of mourners visiting Hanover’s grave. A story on the investigation reported that the inquiry was going nowhere. An editorial called on President Mumfries to announce soon whether he intended to run for reelection. A young man with a ponytail and a backpack walked in.

“Guy gave me a twenty to give you this,” he said, and handed her an envelope.

“Where is he?”

“Said not to say anything. Just tell you to read the note.”

She let a look of concern form on her face.

“Okay, okay, outside in the back, in a brown car.” He spun around and left the room.

That’s what the note said. It asked Lancette to meet him in the parking lot. It was not signed. In a penny, in a pound, she thought.

She exited the library. A car flashed its headlights. The guy from the gift shop was behind the wheel. The window next to him was open. The engine was on.

“Glad you came,” Charlie Walters said. “Sorry for the melodrama … the notes and all this.”

He was nervous. She stayed back from the car.

“But there are reasons,” he continued.

“Good ones, I’m sure,” Lancette replied.

Walters slid over to the passenger side.

“Please, get in for a moment. We can talk.”

“Long day behind the desk. I prefer to stand.”