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made fiery because they remained internal, as she mourned mementos of a life that had become almost a myth.
    She sorted through the shredded papers until she came up with a pair of Washington names and numbers. The phone had been ripped from her wall and the tiny cellphone was missing altogether, so she walked to the corner booth to call Esther Hutchings. At least she was likely to offer a sane note, if not sympathy. The robot-voiced answering machine fitted the anonymous night. Jackie left a terse message, then dialed the second number. If this did not qualify as an emergency, nothing did.
    The phone was answered before the second ring. “Yes?”
    “Is this Nabil . . . I’m sorry, I can’t read your last name.”
    “Who is speaking?”
    “My name is Jackie Havilland.”
    “This name I do not know.” The voice was male, deep, and resonated with an accent she did not recognize. Perhaps Arabic. The man also sounded very suspicious. “How did you receive this number?”
    “Esther Hutchings gave it to me.”
    “Ah. Then you must be the mystery woman.”
    “My apartment has been broken into and everything destroyed.”
    “Which proves we were right in telling Esther not to take this course. She has only increased the danger to us all.”
    Whatever Jackie had been expecting, it was not this overt hostility. “Can you get a message to her, please? They stole my cellphone and tore my other from the wall.”
    When she stopped, the man said impatiently, “Yes? That is your message? Then I suggest you call the phone service and not Esther.”
    “Look.” She took a deep breath. It would be too easy to unload her anger on this voice. “Give me a break here, all right? I’ve just come back to a house that looks like a demolition site. I’m not thinking straight.”
    A pause, then, “This I can understand. Very well. I will call Esther for you and say they came. And when you were not home they left you a warning.”
    The matter-of-fact tone both unsettled and attracted her. “I need to ask you something.”
    “Yes?”
    Jackie searched for some question that would help uncover all the man was not saying. “Esther supplied me with typed notes annotated by hand, I assume from her husband.”
    “Another grave error.”
    “I need to know who made those handwritten notes. Some of them refer to people I can’t identify, and—”
    “Anyone with half a brain would know the honorable gentleman would himself be writing notes on his personal documents.”
    “How interesting.” Acid rose to etch her words. “Seeing as how Graham Hutchings was apparently writing with both hands, and the left-handed notes show definite feminine traits.”
    The deep voice showed its first trace of hesitancy. “Feminine. Yes. A researcher and dear friend helping Graham with his work.”
    “Friend, foe, or morph, I don’t care. I just want to talk with her.”
    “So would I,” the voice replied mournfully. “Oh, so very much. Alas, my dear friend was there when they came with her warning. You understand what I am saying to you?”
    “Not exactly.”
    “My friend was caused to fall from a building in Washington. That was their warning to her. So now all our questions must be directed toward the grave.”

7
    Wednesday
    T HE BRITISH EMBASSY was a brick-and-glass wart rising from the leafy expanse of Massachusetts Avenue. Everything wrong with sixties architecture had been gathered together and planted amid the massive oaks and sycamores. Wynn passed through the metal detector and gave his name to the receptionist. An older woman standing alongside the table responded instantly, moving forward, offering her hand. “An honor that you would join us, Congressman. I am Audrey Portman, the ambassador’s personal aide. I know he is anxious to meet you.”
    She did not lead so much as direct him from alongside. Midway across the floor, she murmured for his ear alone, “Perhaps I should mention, Congressman, the two ladies and the gentleman