“Obviously there was some translation problem,” she said. “I didn’t guarantee anything to Inspector Padlo. He’s provided invaluable assistance to us in a case at Dulles involving the murder of one, possibly two, cops. Since it seems to be connected to his triple homicide, he—”

“It ‘seems to be connected,’” Kalmbach interrupted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Trying to conceal her annoyance, she explained as crisply as she could. “Padlo was able to ID the shooter at Dulles as a Serb national and a war criminal who—”

“Excuse me, Agent Connolly. He ID’d the shooter based on what?”

“Surveillance video taken at Dulles.”

“Ah. So Inspector Padlo viewed the video, then?”

She faltered. “No. I did. But Padlo made a positive ID based on my verbal description to him.”

“Your . . . verbal description,” Kalmbach echoed softly. Condescension dripped from every word.

“In fact—” she began, but Kalmbach cut her off.

“Do you understand how complex and involved the process is by which a foreign law enforcement official is granted entry into the United States? It involves weeks of legal findings and sworn affidavits by the DOJ’s Criminal Division, the Office of International Affairs. It’s a cumbersome and extremely sensitive legal affair and not one to be taken lightly. For one thing, there must be absolutely incontrovertible evidence of dual criminality.”

Oh, for God’s sake, she thought. The guy lived and breathed paperwork. It was a wonder he hadn’t already died of white lung. “Sir, if Padlo’s right then, those three homicides in Warsaw are tied to these police shootings at Dulles Airport and we’ve got a clear-cut case of dual criminality.”

“A case built on a verbal description over the telephone, Agent Connolly? I hardly think that constitutes a finding of dual criminality. This is an awfully slender reed. I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to grant a visa to Inspector Padlo.”

Yeah, she thought. If Jozef wanted to get into the country quick and easy, no questions asked, he should just join Al Qaeda and enroll in flight school. We’d let him in without a second look.

But she said, “So you’re saying that if we had a clear-cut ID of the shooter—connecting the Warsaw homicides to the Dulles ones—you’d have no problem letting Padlo in?”

“We don’t have that, do we?” Kalmbach said acidly.

“No, sir,” she said. “Not yet.”

“Thank you, Agent . . . Marion.”

“M. T.,” she said.

But he’d hung up.

She’d been M. T. since the age of thirteen.

She’d always hated her given name, “Marion.” Her father had also been Marion; but then, as he was always proud to point out, that was John Wayne’s real name. In Gulfport, Mississippi, where Dad had been a part-time deputy in the Harrison County Sheriff ’s Department, the Duke was up there with Jesus Christ. Bigger, to some folks.