Flip’s was your regulation DC bar, with lots of mahogany and polished brass. By five forty-five the bar would be full of politicos, Pentagon workers, secretaries, and Hill staffers, most, if not all, on the make. Happy hour was from six to seven, and Flip turned out a good table, meaning wings, chips, salsa, and pizza rolls. Friday nights were a madhouse; it was when Flip served all-you-can-eat shrimp. Free, of course. The place hummed and bustled, and if you were lucky enough to get a table, you hung on to it for the night. Unless, of course, you got lucky and headed home for an early evening with a member of the opposite sex. On more than one occasion, the occupants of the table took a gratuity of twenty or so bucks from someone waiting for a table, enough to pay for the drinks before departing. It was DC, the land of power brokers and spin artists.

“These shoes are killing me,” Sam said as she moved through the revolving door. They were early enough that a table was available in the rear of the room, far enough away from the brass-and-mahogany bar that a person could actually hear what his or her companion was saying. The bar tables were high enough and round enough that five stools could fit comfortably. Each woman slid onto a stool, then looked at each other before they burst out laughing.

The man who was tailing the two women was Poke Donovan. His real name was Peter but he’d been christened Poke a lifetime ago because he always carried a poke in his back, a canvas bag with the tools of his trade. He settled himself at the far end of the bar, the end closest to them. He ordered a Heineken he intended to nurse for a while as he settled down to wait. He found himself a little chagrined that the two women hadn’t noticed him following them. So much for the FBI surveillance course they’d taken.

Poke eyed the red-hot wings Flip’s was known for. Certain his quarry wasn’t going anywhere, he walked over to the buffet and loaded up a plate that he carried back to his seat at the bar. The women were drinking margaritas by the pitcher. Before he dived into the wings, he pulled out his Blackberry and clicked it on. Two messages from the boss. Check in. Details please. His own return emails were just as succinct. On target. Too soon for details. He settled back to devour the wings.

He saw the first, the second, and the third Mrs. Rainford walk past the section of the bar where he was sitting. Lookers, all three of them. Definitely on a par with the two at the bar table. A miniature listening device in his ear enabled him to eat and listen to the conversation among the five women.