Jarrell chuckled. "Well, he doesn't appear to have developed any mental powers or turned into a zombie, so I think he's safe, for now."

BC stood up. "Well, thank you again." He couldn't help but ask. "Why did you help me?"

Jarrell poured himself his fifth or sixth whiskey before answering. He looked around the maze of newspapers with their colored markers, the myriad coded and recoded and decoded secrets they contained, then turned back to BC.

"I dunno. Because you found me, I suppose. Because you broke into J. Edgar Hoover's Vault. Anyone who can do that is obviously fairly good at what he does. He's also probably insane, but in a way I can identify with." He waved his drink at the stacks of paper. "I'd say it's better than even odds that you're gonna end up in a body bag like Logan, but still, I've always been a sucker for the underdog." He raised his drink to BC. "Good hunting."

Washington, DC November 10, 1963

A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in."

Chul-moo opened the door quietly, almost apologetically.

"The senator is leaving," he said in Korean.

Song didn't look up from her desk. "He had a good time?"

"Laurel says he gave her a gown from a French designer. Yves Saint Laurent. Garrison says she practically had him posing for the cameras. Also, the background check on Paul Ingram came up clean."

"If Paul Ingram is a Swedish businessman, I'm a Dallas housewife. Well, at least he's taken the time to build a good cover. Book him for Friday. Set him up with Njeri. If he's got any secrets, she'll beat them out of him. Is that all?"

"There was a call from San Francisco."

Song looked up. "Melchior's n.a.z.i? What did he want?"

"He said that Melchior wants us to move the new girl."

"Move her where? The Mayflower? The Willard? Did he say why Melchior wanted her moved?" When Chul-moo shook his head, Song said, "If Melchior wants to foot the bill for different accommodations, he can call and tell me himself. Till then, she's staying here. Please make sure Laurel gets back to the residence. I'll see myself home."

"Of course." The tiniest of pauses. "Shall I check on her?"

"On?"

"The new girl?"

Chul-moo's expression hadn't changed, but the faintest note-of longing, pleading almost, had entered his voice. It was hard to imagine this knife of a boy asking for anything, let alone permission to visit a girl. Song had selected Chul-moo as her majordomo because his s.e.xual taste ran to middle-aged white men, on whom he took great pleasure in exacting revenge for the destruction of his country (when Song got a client who particularly enjoyed being humiliated, she would send Chulmoo in instead of one of the girls; despite his youth, he was surprisingly learned in the ways of inflicting pain, whether lethal or remediable). Yet she could have sworn there was a note of genuine desire in Chul-moo's voice.

"That's not necessary. I'll be looking in on her myself."

"Of course." Chul-moo wasn't quite able to hide his disappointment. With a slight bow, he backed from the room.

Song remained in her office for another hour, reviewing the day's takings, monetary and photographic, and checking tomorrow's appointments, including an Iraqi Baathist who controlled nearly a third of that country's oil, and had helped to oust General Qasim in February after the latter established ties with the Soviet Union (Qasim himself had been a client here five years ago, just before he seized power). She'd contacted CIA to see if they were interested in incriminating photographs-the man's name was Saddam Hussein, and there was something about the set of his mouth that suggested he would get up to some very very naughty things in bed-or if they wanted one of her more experienced girls to pump him for information, but the Company had turned her down, which suggested they were already working with him. That information was also valuable, although much trickier to sell, and she should have put out feelers to KGB to see if they were interested, but she was distracted tonight. For one thing, there was this Ingram fellow, whom she was pretty sure naughty things in bed-or if they wanted one of her more experienced girls to pump him for information, but the Company had turned her down, which suggested they were already working with him. That information was also valuable, although much trickier to sell, and she should have put out feelers to KGB to see if they were interested, but she was distracted tonight. For one thing, there was this Ingram fellow, whom she was pretty sure was was KGB. For another, there was "the new girl," as Chul-moo called her. Song wasn't sure why she'd agreed to take custody of Nancy for Melchior, especially after she'd ferried Orpheus to San Francisco free of charge. It was a scenario with many possible drawbacks, including running afoul of CIA. Song was certainly not averse to risk-taking-you didn't build the kind of business she'd created without taking a few gambles. But it was hard to see the payoff in this deal with Melchior. Unless, of course, it was Melchior himself. KGB. For another, there was "the new girl," as Chul-moo called her. Song wasn't sure why she'd agreed to take custody of Nancy for Melchior, especially after she'd ferried Orpheus to San Francisco free of charge. It was a scenario with many possible drawbacks, including running afoul of CIA. Song was certainly not averse to risk-taking-you didn't build the kind of business she'd created without taking a few gambles. But it was hard to see the payoff in this deal with Melchior. Unless, of course, it was Melchior himself.

Meanwhile, there was the girl. Nancy. Song had never met someone quite like her. Someone so seemingly helpless, yet who incurred the aid of powerful forces wherever she went. One look at her and you wanted to protect her. No, that wasn't quite it. One look from from her and you wanted to protect her. Take Chul-moo. He guarded her more fiercely than any of the other girls, and she didn't even work here. Well, not yet anyway. her and you wanted to protect her. Take Chul-moo. He guarded her more fiercely than any of the other girls, and she didn't even work here. Well, not yet anyway.

Melchior'd told her that Nancy had worked as a hooker in Boston, but, unlike the girls Song hired, she didn't seem to have entered into her profession happily. She drank too much (although she hadn't touched a drop since coming to Song's), and practically radiated miserableness. But that morning, before Song left the residence, she'd stopped in Nancy's room, and Nancy had asked to work for her. Taken aback, Song had said she would think about it and get back to her at the end of the day.

She wondered about the call from Keller, though. If she had to guess, she'd say say that "Orpheus" had gotten away from the doctor and was on his way here. Well, let him come. From what she'd seen of him on the plane, he didn't look like much of a threat, and it was going to take more than one spurned lover to break into her house.

She closed her ledger now, stored it in the safe with the day's cash, headed for the residence. The Newport Place property was solely for business. She and the girls lived in a town house on N, directly behind the bordello and connected to it by a tunnel built with taxpayer dollars (although even the Company, who funneled her the money, didn't know of its existence). No doubt it was an extravagance, but it was a mark of Song's power, and she never failed to feel as though she were a queen striding the length of a great hall as she traversed the narrow cement chute. She had the palace, the imperial guard, a dozen ladies in waiting. All she lacked was a consort. If only he hadn't been wearing that shabby suit. And those sandals sandals. Her lip curled in disgust at the very thought.

In the residence, she took the elevator to the fourth floor and knocked on her guest's door.

"Come in," a soft voice called.

This time it was Song who opened the door quietly, obsequiously even, as if she were the servant, the room's occupant the mistress. Nancy sat at her dressing table, her hair and makeup perfect, as if she'd been expecting the call.

"I just wanted to check in on you."

"I'm fine, thank you." Nancy pointed to a plate of ginger cookies. "Chul-moo came by earlier."

Song stared at the girl. What was it about her? She was lovely, no doubt about that. But Song trafficked in some of the most beautiful girls in the world and was unfazed by looks. No, there was something special about this girl. Something that made you want to soothe her. Protect her. Give her whatever she wanted. She was bewitching.

"I wanted to know if you'd thought further about your offer this morning."

"What is there to think about?"

"You're here as my guest. You don't have to work for your keep."

"I'm here as your prisoner," Nancy said, and even though there wasn't any acrimony in her voice, it still stabbed Song like a spear of ice in the guts. "But that's neither here nor there. Seducing people is simply what I do."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Nancy said, and there was that curious helplessness again. Song wanted to wrap her arms around the girl-and the last person she'd hugged had been her brother's murdered body. She knew she should refuse Nancy's request. But she also wanted to know what would happen if she said yes.

"You're Persian, no?"

Nancy nodded.

"Do you happen to speak Arabic by any chance?"

"Some. It's rusty, though."

"I have an Iraqi gentleman coming in tomorrow. I'm sure he'd appreciate not having to bring a translator into the room."

Naz looked at herself in the mirror. She brought the brush to her hair, then put it down again-a tacit acknowledgment that the face that looked back at her was already perfect.

"He won't be disappointed," she said quietly.

"No," Song mused. "For some reason, I don't think he will be."

Washington, DC November 14, 1963

It was almost true: clothes make the man. Just as the maid in the Department of Justice Building had taken a clean-cut white fellow in a soiled uniform ten sizes too big for an electrician, so did the residents of Dupont Circle take BC for one of them: a man of the world, of power, influence, prospects-and s.e.xual needs. the Department of Justice Building had taken a clean-cut white fellow in a soiled uniform ten sizes too big for an electrician, so did the residents of Dupont Circle take BC for one of them: a man of the world, of power, influence, prospects-and s.e.xual needs.

He paused before the double doors of the Newport Place town house: a sheet of plate gla.s.s sandwiched between an ornately curved wrought-iron scroll without and golden gossamer curtains within. The curtains were just thick enough to obscure the view inside but still thin enough to allow a globe of soft yellow light to illuminate the porch, whose upper landing was shaded by a delicate tangle of wisteria. And there, reflected in the gold-backed sheet of gla.s.s, stood the new, improved BC Querrey. Beauregard Gamin, at your service, ma'am.

Or, rather, madam.

"Song won't be fooled by cheap imitations," Jarrell had told BC. "You go to her house, you wear bespoke or nothing at all." He'd given BC the name of a tailor on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Told him to order two suits, one in a simple charcoal twill, the other in a shiny black. "Tell him to widen the lapels a bit on the charcoal, cut the trousers a little loose in the ankle-say, 1960, 1961 at the latest. You want it to look like you've had it for a while. The black should be mod-one-inch lapels, stovepipe legs. The jacket should fall just above the bottom of your a.s.s and the trouser cuffs should expose a good inch of sock when you're standing up. Trust me, Song's business is appearances. She'll notice." fooled by cheap imitations," Jarrell had told BC. "You go to her house, you wear bespoke or nothing at all." He'd given BC the name of a tailor on Wisconsin Avenue in Georgetown. Told him to order two suits, one in a simple charcoal twill, the other in a shiny black. "Tell him to widen the lapels a bit on the charcoal, cut the trousers a little loose in the ankle-say, 1960, 1961 at the latest. You want it to look like you've had it for a while. The black should be mod-one-inch lapels, stovepipe legs. The jacket should fall just above the bottom of your a.s.s and the trouser cuffs should expose a good inch of sock when you're standing up. Trust me, Song's business is appearances. She'll notice."

BC had regarded the disheveled man delivering such specific sartorial advice with more than a bit of skepticism. "How much is this going to cost?"

"The suits are going to run about a hundred each," Jarrell said, and BC fought back a gasp. "But first-timers at Song's have to pay a cool grand just for the privilege of saddling up. After that it's two hundred and fifty dollars a ride." He'd looked BC up and down in his thrift store costume. "You can put your hands on that kind of cash?"

For some reason an image of Gerry Burton flashed in BC's mind.

"I'll get it somewhere."

An Asian boy answered the door. He wore a plain black suit, not quite livery, and despite the fact that it fit him loosely, and that he couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, he still managed to project an aura of barely contained strength and menace. answered the door. He wore a plain black suit, not quite livery, and despite the fact that it fit him loosely, and that he couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen, he still managed to project an aura of barely contained strength and menace.

He neither spoke nor stood aside, just looked at BC as if he were stripping off the newly minted threads and seeing the naked, quaking man beneath.

BC took a moment to hear his grandmother's rolling drawl in his mind. Then: "Good evening, sir. Is there any chance Madam Song is at home on such a beautiful night?"

The majordomo continued to stare at him blankly. Finally, after BC was about to repeat the pa.s.s phrase, he moved aside. BC took a step forward, only to be stopped by an arm that, however thin, still felt as hard as an iron bar. The boy flicked BC's arms away from his side, and nimble, pincer-strong fingers squeezed each limb from wrist to shoulder, patted the outside of his jacket, then reached inside. BC felt the boy's hands on his chest, his ribs, his waist.

"The only man who usually touches me this way is my tailor," BC drawled.

The boy used his foot to nudge BC's legs apart, knelt down and gave each leg the same thorough going over. At the end he brought his hand up sharp at BC's inseam, let it sit there a moment longer than BC was comfortable with. He looked up at BC with a little smile on his face.

"No weapon," he said, standing up. "Suit nice though."

"Thanks," BC said. "I had to sell my momma's house to pay for it."

"Security consists of three men," Jarrell told him. "The majordomo will answer the door. Lee Chul-moo. Don't let the baby face fool you. Song picked him up off the street in Korea. He's supposed to be versed in all those kung fusumo wrestling maneuvers." of three men," Jarrell told him. "The majordomo will answer the door. Lee Chul-moo. Don't let the baby face fool you. Song picked him up off the street in Korea. He's supposed to be versed in all those kung fusumo wrestling maneuvers."

"Kung fu is Chinese. Sumo is j.a.panese."

"Let's just say that he can rip your legs off and beat you to death with them. Once past the front vestibule, you'll see a staircase directly ahead of you. There's a security booth in the room below it. It's manned by a single guard who monitors the closed-circuit cameras installed in each of the guest rooms. For the past couple of years it's been a guy named Garrison Davis. He's more of a gadget geek than Chul-moo, but you can expect he'll be packing. No one knows where the third man is stationed, but you don't need to worry about it. If you catch a glimpse of him, chances are it'll be the last thing you ever see. And then of course there's Song."

Chul-moo led BC past a large parlor to the end of the hall, where he knocked on a closed door. The door opened on a small office. The parlor-height ceilings were taller than the room was deep, and a single coffin-shaped window, heavily draped, added to the cloistered feeling. A series of framed sketches depicted Victorian women holding little frilly dogs in their laps. The rest of the furniture was similarly proper-female but not feminine, cool but not cold-without a hint of the Eastern, let alone the harem. Just like the woman sitting at the small escritoire. past a large parlor to the end of the hall, where he knocked on a closed door. The door opened on a small office. The parlor-height ceilings were taller than the room was deep, and a single coffin-shaped window, heavily draped, added to the cloistered feeling. A series of framed sketches depicted Victorian women holding little frilly dogs in their laps. The rest of the furniture was similarly proper-female but not feminine, cool but not cold-without a hint of the Eastern, let alone the harem. Just like the woman sitting at the small escritoire.

"Song does a lot of business with the intelligence community. Because your entree is coming from me, she'll immediately have a scenario in mind, namely, that I'm going to try to blackmail you into performing services for the Company. I suggest a munitions cover-bullets perhaps, or handguns. Nothing too fancy, but something the Company might be interested in acquiring at a discount. So in addition to the money she takes from you, she'll be looking at a substantially larger payment when she sells me the copies of the film footage of you and one of her girls. That said, she can smell bulls.h.i.t a mile away. She wouldn't have gotten where she is otherwise. You're a young, good-looking man and, as far as she knows, quite wealthy. Obviously you don't need to resort to prost.i.tutes. In order for you to gain her trust, you're going to have to convince her that you're not just another p.u.s.s.y-hound. You're a connoisseur of tail. You've had the starlets, the debutantes. Now you want the kind of girls you can't get back home in Georgia or Ole Miss or wherever you decide to hail from. The kind of girls who do the kinds of things that, well, no respectable girl would do." lot of business with the intelligence community. Because your entree is coming from me, she'll immediately have a scenario in mind, namely, that I'm going to try to blackmail you into performing services for the Company. I suggest a munitions cover-bullets perhaps, or handguns. Nothing too fancy, but something the Company might be interested in acquiring at a discount. So in addition to the money she takes from you, she'll be looking at a substantially larger payment when she sells me the copies of the film footage of you and one of her girls. That said, she can smell bulls.h.i.t a mile away. She wouldn't have gotten where she is otherwise. You're a young, good-looking man and, as far as she knows, quite wealthy. Obviously you don't need to resort to prost.i.tutes. In order for you to gain her trust, you're going to have to convince her that you're not just another p.u.s.s.y-hound. You're a connoisseur of tail. You've had the starlets, the debutantes. Now you want the kind of girls you can't get back home in Georgia or Ole Miss or wherever you decide to hail from. The kind of girls who do the kinds of things that, well, no respectable girl would do."

"Things-"

"Choose your kink," Jarrell said with a wicked gleam in his eye. "And if I were you, I'd seal the deal, if you know what I mean. You're forking over twelve hundred and fifty dollars. Might as well get your money's worth. And believe me, Song's girls are worth it."

Because she was Asian, and because she ran a bordello, BC had pictured something a little more exotic. A kabuki girl or whatever they were called. A geisha. A dragon lady. Instead he found himself facing a demure, almost prim woman in a dun-colored herringbone suit lightened only by a bit of pale fur at the end of the three-quarter-length sleeves. Her black bouffant was the spitting image of the First Lady's, and she'd shadowed her eyes in such a way as to minimize their epicanthic fold. Her accent was similarly Americanized, her vowels as flat as a Midwesterner's, her consonants as firm as her handshake. Asian, and because she ran a bordello, BC had pictured something a little more exotic. A kabuki girl or whatever they were called. A geisha. A dragon lady. Instead he found himself facing a demure, almost prim woman in a dun-colored herringbone suit lightened only by a bit of pale fur at the end of the three-quarter-length sleeves. Her black bouffant was the spitting image of the First Lady's, and she'd shadowed her eyes in such a way as to minimize their epicanthic fold. Her accent was similarly Americanized, her vowels as flat as a Midwesterner's, her consonants as firm as her handshake.

"Mr. Gamin." Song didn't stand, but let her hand rest in BC's for a moment, not limply but delicately: the clothes offered a masculine front, the handshake gave a feminine finish. BC felt weak in the knees. "Please, have a seat."

BC did his best not to plop into one of the spindly cane chairs opposite the desk. He wasn't sure what he expected. Some small talk perhaps. Questions about his background. But Song was all business.

"Tell me what you like in a girl."

An image filled BC's mind: his mother, inspecting his appearance before she let him leave the house each morning, from the time he went to kindergarten all the way through his first days at the Bureau. A sharp, calcified nail would repart his hair ever so slightly to the left or right of where he'd combed it, and her cold fingers would smooth it off his forehead. He knew she didn't mean to seem critical, that it was just her way of finding an excuse to touch her son. But still, he had to fight off a shiver as he remembered the chill of her fingers running over his scalp.

"Warm hands," he said quickly, then threw in a bit of a smirk, hoping that would make the comment seem more lascivious.

Song waved his words away with an impeccably manicured hand. Though he'd shaken it less than a minute ago, BC couldn't remember whether it had been cold or warm. He guessed that it could be either, depending on her inclination. Something told him it would be frigid for him.

"Be more specific. All of our girls have a uniform body temperature."

An image of Naz filled BC's mind. Her eyes flashed in his. Deep, dark, full of fear, but also fiercely protective, as she hovered over Chandler's delirious body in the Millbrook cottage.

"I've always liked a girl with dark eyes," he said, his shyness only half feigned. "Dark hair. Dark ... skin."

"Exotic or domestic," Song said, as though she were referring to automobiles or beers.

"I'm afraid I don't quite take your meaning."

"Something like me," Song said, with the slightest hint of mockery in her voice-as if the man on the far side of the desk could aspire to a woman like her. "Or something like your ancestors owned?"

Jarrell had called him yesterday. called him yesterday.

"Jesus Christ, it took me forever to track you down."

"I'm sorry, I sold my house to pay for those suits."

"You what?" what?" Jarrell exclaimed. "Never mind. Okay, first off, I asked around about Mary Meyer. The thing with the president seems to have been over for a while, so I think she's fine." Jarrell exclaimed. "Never mind. Okay, first off, I asked around about Mary Meyer. The thing with the president seems to have been over for a while, so I think she's fine."

"And secondly?"

"She's at Song's."

"Mary Meyer is at a brothel?"

"No, you idiot. The girl. Haverman."

"What? How do you know?"

"Your description of her was very ... memorable." There was a leer in Jarrell's voice, and BC found himself wondering if Jarrell had done more than look.

"What's she doing there? Is she a prisoner?"