On the way into D.C. from the hospital in Warrenton, Gabe had taken a half an hour detour and driven into Anacostia for a second time, then across the Benning Street Bridge. Once a sought-after middle-class section of the city, according to sources on Google and, of course, Wikipedia, Anacostia began its evolution from 90 percent white to over 90 percent black in the mid-1950s. Even though parts of the area had seen much better days, certain blocks still featured neatly maintained homes and yards and a distinct turn-of-the-twentieth-century charm.

Dr. John Torrence, a black major in the Army and part of the White House medical team, had grown up in Anacostia and still had family there.

"White or black," he told Gabe, "walking around Anacostia after midnight isn't something I'd recommend doing on a regular basis. But if for any reason I absolutely had to, I would. Like most inner cities, there are some gangs and drug crazies, but mostly, there are very good people there."

The evening was moonless and unseasonably cool. On his earlier reconnaissance, Gabe had identified a place to park that was as close as possible to the area beneath the Benning Street Bridge. He arrived at the spot twenty minutes before one. It was a narrow street running alongside the Anacostia Reservation, a broad field that just a few hours ago was alive with picnickers, softball and touch football games, soaring kites and Frisbees. The lighting around the park was far from optimal and may have been at least one of the reasons Ferendelli chose the place to meet.

Ten minutes.

Gabe lowered the window of the Buick. There was almost no one about. Twice he heard voices, and once he saw the shadows of three or four people—boys, he thought—making their way across the field. Up on the bridge itself, there was a steady rumble of traffic.

As his eyes adjusted, he could easily make out the river, a tributary of the Potomac and the centerpiece for what was to be a rejuvenation of this part of the city. Just a mile or so to the south, East Capitol Street crossed the river, its westbound lanes headed into Capitol Hill, the Mall, and, of course, the White House.

Just a mile.

Gabe managed a thin smile at the irony. A meeting was about to take place in these hardscrabble surroundings that could affect the world as much as any that had been held in those staid and hoary buildings. It wouldn't be long now.

For a time, the attack on Blackthorn nagged at him. How could the killer have known where Blackthorn was staying? At the psychologist's urging, Gabe had asked Treat Griswold to have his condo checked over for listening devices. Reportedly, none had been found.

Two minutes.