I had been talking with Sandy Greenberg nearly every night. She was helping me collect information on the other game players. She had even gone and talked with Conqueror. She said she doubted that Oliver Highsmith was a killer. He was late-sixties, seriously overweight, and wheelchair-bound.

Sandy called the house at seven that night. She’s a good friend. Obviously, she was burning the midnight oil for me. I took the call in the sanctuary of my attic office.

“Andrew Jones of the Security Service will see you,” she announced in her usual perky and aggressive manner. “Isn’t that great news? I’ll tell you: it is. Actually, he’s eager to meet with you, Alex. He didn’t say it to me directly, but I don’t think he’s too keen on Colonel Shafer. Wouldn’t say why. Even more fortuitous, he’s in Washington. He’s a top man. He matters in the intelligence arena. He’s very good, Alex, a straight shooter.”

I thanked Sandy and then immediately called Jones at his hotel. He answered the call in his room. “Yes. Hello. It’s Andrew Jones. Who is this, please?”

“It’s Detective Alex Cross of the Washington police. I just got off the line with Sandy Greenberg. How are you?”

“Good, very good. Well, hell, not really. I’ve had better weeks, months. Actually, I stayed here in my room hoping that you’d call. Would you like to meet, Alex? Is there someplace where we wouldn’t stand out too much?”

I suggested a bar on M Street in half an hour, and I arrived there a minute or two early. I recognized Jones from his description on the phone: “Broad, beefy, red-faced. Just your average ex-rugby type — though I never bloody played, don’t even watch the drivel. Oh, yes, flaming red hair and matching mustache. That should help, no?”

It did. We sat in a dark booth in back and got to know each other. For the next forty-five minutes, Jones filled me in on several important things, not the least of which was politics and decorum within the English intelligence and police communities; Lucy Shafer’s father’s good name and standing in the army, and the concern for his reputation; and the desire of the government to avoid an even dicier scandal than the current mess.

“Alex, if it were true that one of our agents committed coldblooded murders while posted abroad, and that British intelligence knew nothing about it, the scandal would be a true horror and a major embarrassment. But if MI-Six knew anything about what Colonel Shafer is suspected of doing! Well, it’s absolutely unthinkable.”

“Did it?” I asked him. “Is this situation unthinkable?”

“I won’t answer that, Alex — you know I can’t. But I am prepared to help you if I possibly can.”

“Why?” I asked, then, “Why now? We needed your help on this before the trial began.”