Jasper gave her his most winning smile, introduced himself, and said: “We’ve met before.”

She looked suspicious. “I don’t think so.”

“Sure we have. But you could be forgiven for not remembering. The date was the twenty-eighth of August, 1963. A lot else happened on that day.”

“Especially Martin’s ‘I have a dream’ speech.”

“I was a student reporter and I asked you to get me an interview with Dr. King. You gave me the brush-off.” Jasper also remembered how mesmerized he had been by Verena’s beauty. He was feeling the same enchantment now.

She softened. With a smile she said: “And I guess you still want that interview.”

“Sam Cakebread will be here at the weekend. He’s going to talk to Herb Loeb. He really should interview Dr. King as well.”

“I’ll do my best, Mr. Murray.”

“Please call me Jasper.”

She hesitated. “Satisfy my curiosity. How did we come to meet, that day in Washington?”

“I was having breakfast with Congressman Greg Peshkov, a family friend. You were with George Jakes.”

“And where have you been since then?”

“Vietnam, some of the time.”

“You fought?”

“Saw some action, yes.” He hated talking about that. “May I ask you a personal question?”

“Try me. I don’t promise to answer.”

“Are you and George still an item?”

“I’m not going to answer.”

At that moment they both heard King’s voice, and looked up. He was standing on the balcony outside his room, looking down, saying something to one of the aides near Jasper and Verena in the parking lot. King was tucking his shirt in, as if dressing after a shower. He was probably getting ready to go out for dinner, Jasper thought.

King put both hands on the rail and leaned over, joshing with someone below. “Ben, I want you to sing ‘My Precious Lord’ for me tonight like you never sung it before—want you to sing it real pretty.”

The driver of the white Cadillac called up to him: “The air’s turning cool, Reverend. You might want a topcoat tonight.”

King said: “Okay, Jonesy.” He straightened up from the rail.

A shot rang out.

King staggered back, threw up his arms like a man on a cross, hit the wall behind him, and fell.

Verena screamed.

King’s aides took cover around the white Cadillac.

Jasper dropped to one knee. Verena crouched down in front of him. He put both arms around her, pulling her head to his chest protectively, and looked for the source of the shot. There was a building across the street that might be a rooming house.

There was no second shot.

Jasper was torn for a moment. He released Verena from his protective embrace. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

“Oh, Martin!” she said, looking up at the balcony.

They both stood up warily, but the shooting seemed to have stopped.

Without speaking, they both dashed up the exterior staircase to the balcony.

King lay on his back, his feet up against the railing. Ralph Abernathy was bent over him, as was another campaigner, the amiable, bespectacled Billy Kyles. Screams and moans were coming from the people in the parking lot who had seen the shooting.