Walters fumbled something he was holding and cursed under his breath. Lancette took a step forward to see better inside the car. He raised an arm. A gun was in his hand. Six inches from the tip of her nose.

“Please, get in,” he said. His hand was shaking. She thought about running, but she worried a sudden movement might prompt him to shoot. She opened the door and slid behind the wheel.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she said.

“Turn left when we leave the lot.”

“So what is this? A kidnaping? A rape? A new way to impress a girl on a first date? You should know that I left notes at home and at my office saying I was meeting you, just in case something happened.”

“You did not.” He waved the gun at her. “Drive.”

“Did too. Good tradecraft, isn’t it?”

“Then let’s hope they’re not paying attention to you yet.”

“Who?” she asked.

He poked her with the pistol, and she pulled the car out of the lot.

Lancette was surprising herself. She was not frightened. Walters ordered her to turn right and then right again.

“That’s a one-way street,” she said. “The other way.”

“Do it.”

She looked at him.

“That way you can tell if anyone is following,” he said.

“They teach you this?”

“No, saw it on television.”

She turned into the one-way residential street and toward the headlights of an oncoming car. A horn sounded. She veered to the right and the other car passed. Walters checked to see if anyone was behind them. A truck came toward the car. She swerved again. At the end of the block, she hit the brakes.

“Keep going.”

“Isn’t this enough?” she asked.

“Go.” He shook the gun.

At the next intersection, he instructed her to make a left and to return to normal traffic.

“All clear,” he said.

“I’m delighted,” she replied.

Walters directed her away from the Capitol, down Pennsylvania Avenue, and toward the dilapidated neighborhoods of Anacostia. Near the river, he told her to make a U-turn, pull over, and get out. He took the keys from her. They were standing in front of Wink’s, a windowless bar. The neon Budweiser sign over the door was not working. A hand-painted sign read, “Pool 50.” The gun was not in sight.

“A drink?” he asked.

“You’re crazy,” she said. “I should run.”

“You can. But if you care about … You should have a drink.”

This is not about fucking me or hurting me, she thought. It’s something else. She tried for a tough-sounding response.

“Okay … but you’re paying.”

Not quite, but close, she thought, as he opened the door to the bar for her.

Inside the bar was dark, the air smoke-drenched. She followed him to a booth in the back. Everyone stared. He sat with his back to the wall.