He handed her his phone and she put in her digits. “Actually,” she said, as if the idea had just occurred to her, “I might as well give you my US number while I’m at it.”

Gordon felt a rush of heady excitement, like a teenager becoming smitten. “Thank you,” he said. “Don’t be surprised if I call sooner than expected.” He tried to pull it off as a little joke, but it seemed to fall flat.

She humored him, however. “But I would love such a surprise. It would be wonderful.”

She was smiling and meeting his eyes. There it is, he thought. She is flirting with me. His heart did a somersault.

THIRTEEN

January 20

In the evening, Gordon stopped by for a drink with Casper “Cas” Guttenberg, his oldest and best friend from college. They sat and drank wine in Cas’s luxurious apartment at The Wharf with his old dog dozing at his feet. Cas, who had been a chain-smoker as long as Gordon could remember, was small, frail, and brittle, like a parched twig. His name befitted his completely white hair and ghostly pale skin. He and Gordon were close in age, but Cas was the older—and in Gordon’s respectful opinion, the wiser—of the two. For decades up until retirement, he had been an investigative reporter of note for the Washington Observer. Now he did episodic freelance work for them at his leisure. Crippling arthritis of the hands made typing near impossible, so Cas used a voice recognition system to write his articles. Gordon would never forget that he owed a great deal of his success in DC to Cas’s support and guidance.

The two men talked politics—both having the inside track of the Washington game—and then family. Gordon admired his friend for his breadth of knowledge, but the awkward truth that no one said out loud was that Casper hadn’t produced a captivating newspaper piece—paper or online—in more than a year. Gordon, wanting to help his friend in some way without appearing patronizing, was always on the lookout for some unique story that could potentially rocket Cas to prominence again, but beyond the usual insanity of politics inside the Beltway, there seemed to be nothing extraordinary. Gordon had the feeling that Casper, too, was waiting for something special to come along—but what, though?

“How are those fingers holding up these days?” Gordon asked.

Casper shrugged. “Winter nights are the worst. I hate going anywhere in the evenings.”

Gordon nodded in sympathy. “I hear ya.”

“And you?” Cas asked. “Hey, how was the event at the Ghana Embassy yesterday?”

“Very nice,” Gordon said. “Met a wonderful Ghanaian lady there.”

“Is that right,” Cas said, eyes dancing a bit. “Name?”

“Josephine. She’s in DC for a few more days. Married to the inspector general of police in Ghana.”

“So,” Cas said, “romance in the air?”

“Did I mention she was married?” Gordon said dryly.

“What’s your point?”

Gordon laughed.

“You going to see her before she leaves?” Cas asked.