To his right, well-dressed men and women swept past in expensive cars, most turning north or south on Seventeenth Street for the downtown museums and government buildings, a smaller percentage of the traffic continuing past the Reflecting Pool to where Constitution Avenue became Route 66 and spooled on out across the bridge to Arlington. Maybe a mile behind Nordstrum, morning sunlight fanned over the Capitol dome in golden spokes that had already begun to glance off the red brick turrets of Smithsonian Castle. In the broad stretch of landscaping he’d covered on his way down the Hill, walkers and joggers were strung out along the paths at various stages of their exercise routines, squirrels and pigeons were squabbling over sparse winter pickings, and vacationing college kids dressed in goose-down jackets and long elf-like knit caps were strolling toward the small round skating rink next to the Museum of Natural History, carrying their ice skates over their shoulders by the laces. The kids seemed about as traumatized as the squirrels and birds by what had happened in Times Square just one week before, which was not at all.

The resilience of youth? Nordstrum wondered. Or perhaps the inurement of a generation that had been born in an era when terrorism was an ever-present threat, something on a par with environmental calamities like earthquakes and hurricanes? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, and could only hope it was the former. For him, anyway, the grandeur of the Capitol was always enough to fill his head with refrains of “Stars and Stripes” and rouse a tremendous sense of obligation to his adopted country.

He reached Fourteenth Street, jogged in place while waiting for a break in the flow of traffic, then crossed out of the Mall proper onto the monument grounds, where the lawn began its gentle rise to the base of the towering obelisk.

He had started up the knoll when he heard the slapping of feet against the pavement behind him, and looked back to see Neil Blake following only a few yards downhill. An athletic man of thirty-five with handsome features and longish—for Washington—brown hair, he was wearing a black Speedo running suit with an electric blue stripe down the side, looking exactly like what he was, a member of the smart and spirited power elite.

“Neil,” Nordstrom said, slowing a little, “how long have you been stalking me?”

Blake nodded his head back toward Fourteenth Street. “I came in from over by the Ellipse, saw you crossing the road,” he said. “I’d’ve caught up to you sooner, but there was a nice young lady on the path who needed directions, and I sort of had to stop. Besides, I thought I’d let you get in a few extra minutes of peaceful exercise.”

“Such a considerate fellow,” Nordstrum said. “Did you take her phone number? In case she needs more help getting around.”

Blake patted his pocket.