But a zillion generations of monkey ancestors told me to follow the crowd, out of sheer curiosity to see

what all the fuss was about.

Inside, the sense of wrongness grew. People were cl.u.s.tered at the bar-but they weren't drinking, to speak of. And they were strangely quiet. They were all staring at the TV above the rows of bottles. The voices from the TV had the unmistakable tone of news announcers trying to fill a silence.

I shouldered my way through the oddly pa.s.sive crowd. I got to the bar just in time to see the latest of the cruelly interminable reruns of the motorcade in Dallas, focusing on one open-topped car and on the famous chestnut-haired head which suddenly slammed forward with the impact of a bullet.

You have to understand. We didn't know any of the stuff that came out about him later. Like the fact that he was the kind of guy who, at the time his wife was undergoing a difficult and possibly life-threatening childbirth, was off cruising the Med with a boatload of bimbos. The kind of guy who cheerfully signed his name to a book Daddy had had ghost-written, and afterwards cheerfully accepted the Pulitzer prize Daddy bought for the book. In fact, he hardly ever did anything in his life for any reason except to please Daddy. And Daddy was, with the possible exception of Meyer Lansky, the most successful organized criminal in American history . . . besides being a n.a.z.i sympathizer, unlike most crooks, who at least are refreshingly apolitical. A good match for Mommy, whose religious bigotry would have been considered a bit much in the sixteenth century.

No, we didn't know any of that at the time. All we knew was that he was young and vivid and stood out like a flame among the bald, boring old farts who in our experience-I was twenty-seven then-made up the political establishment. Call us na*ve if you want. I can't stop you. I can't even disagree with you. All I can say is that he meant something to us, as though something new had come into our world with him. And now that something had been snuffed out.

That was why, for decades afterwards, in the teeth of all the evidence, people went on believing in various conspiracy theories, the more far-fetched the better. We couldn't accept the fact-and it is a fact-that the a.s.sa.s.sination had been the stupid, pointless act of one lone, pathetic little loser. That truth was unacceptable because it somehow diminished us. Surely the obliteration of what had meant so much to us-defined us, in a way-had to mean something, because we meant something. Didn't we?

In my case, it didn't help that I'd been in the Army's Special Forces before . . . never mind. He had always been kind of a special patron of ours. He'd reviewed us once, and pa.s.sed within a few feet of me.

Anyway, I don't remember much of the rest of that day, or the next few.

At some point, though, I ended up at Matt Kane's, not far from the Fourteenth Street sleaze strip, late at night.

That place was another great thing about the old Washington. If you walked in through the storefront- like entrance, it was just a medium-seedy Irish neighborhood tavern. You had to know the side door, off to the right, that led through a slightly alarming-looking corridor to the "Bit of Ireland" bar in the back.

The business about the whole thing having been brought over from the Auld Sod brick by brick was probably bulls.h.i.t. But it was full of banners and Gaelic road signs and all the rest, and it hosted the best Irish bands to cross the Atlantic.

Tonight, though, the usual liveliness was gone. And I was ignoring the justly famous beer list. I had ordered another Irish on the rocks when I became aware that the barstool beside me had acquired an occupant.

"Better go easy on that stuff, Bob," said George Stafford.

"You missed the meeting in Georgetown," I stated. Even on that day, I'd retained enough presence of mind to check out the crowd. He hadn't been there.

"I know. I was unavoidably detained. There was a lot going on that day."

"Golly, George, thanks for telling me that. What would I do without you? I never would have known if

you hadn't-"

"Cut the G.o.dd.a.m.ned sarcasm!" Stafford kept his voice low with an effort. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. "It just happens that the present situation is especially difficult for the people I work for."

"About whose ident.i.ty I've never been entirely clear." I was pleased with myself for being able to

navigate through that sentence. In fact, the accomplishment seemed to call for a drink. I suited the action

to the thought."You don't need to be 'clear' on it. All you need to know is that I represent people who sometimes need certain services on an ad hoc basis, with no questions asked. The very fact that you've never shown an interest in their ident.i.ty is one of the main reasons you've gotten their business."

"Point taken. Okay, what do you-sorry, I mean the people you represent-need this time?"

Actually, I had a pretty good idea, if only in general terms. Stafford was something in the government, I knew that much. I didn't know what agency he worked for, but it clearly wasn't the FBI or the CIA or

anything like that. Those wouldn't have had any need for the services of a freelancer like myself-they had their own people. No, his agency just had occasional, obviously somewhat irregular contacts with some superspooky outfit or other . . . and it didn't want to use its own people to make those contacts.

Instead, it used intermediaries-independent contractors like yours truly, who had no idea who they were ultimately working for, and could be disavowed and forgotten like a bad smell if such became necessary or convenient. (The English language hadn't yet become debased enough for a term like "plausible deniability," but that was the idea.) Which was fine with me. The money was good, and since I was expendable, they had no reason to be concerned about my background. A marriage made in heaven, you might say.

"The matter concerning which we were supposed to meet in Georgetown has been canceled indefinitely.

But now there's something else we need you for-something related to the situation that has arisen over the last few days." I patiently endured Stafford's circ.u.mlocution, knowing his inability to communicate without it. "There's somebody coming to Washington. Several people, actually. But you only need to worry about one of them. She'll be arriving at National Airport tomorrow." He pa.s.sed me a typed itinerary. "You're to meet her and bring her to the address in here." He slid a sealed envelope along the bar. "Don't open it until you've actually picked her up."

My eyebrows rose. This exceeded even Stafford's usual capacity for cloak-and-dagger theatricality. But I

was perfectly willing to play his games as long as I was paid to do so. "How will I know her?"

For answer, Stafford handed me a wallet-sized photo. It showed a handsome brunette, not too much older than me but too severe-looking for my taste.

"You will address her as 'Miss Smith'," Stafford went on, "and identify yourself to her as 'Mr. Jones'."

"While keeping a straight face?" I inquired, straight-faced. Stafford looked pained, and I raised a hand to

forestall him. "I know, I know: 'no questions asked.' I will ask one question, though. Are you expecting trouble?"

"There shouldn't be any." Stafford's tone seemed oddly at variance with his words. It wasn't an

a.s.surance, but a kind of desperate, almost truculent a.s.sertion, as though things were happening that had no business happening. "However, it seems that the possibility can't be entirely discounted. Why do you think we're hiring you?"

"Skip the flattery. I expect a hazardous-duty bonus."

Stafford flushed. "Why? This is simply what we pay you for in the first place."

"Nope. You pay me-and, I imagine, others like me-because you want to keep your hands clean. Fine.

But I get the impression that this isn't exactly routine. If I'm going to be risking my a.s.s, I expect to be compensated accordingly."

"Don't push it," Stafford snarled. "Remember, if it wasn't for us, you wouldn't be in business at all."

There was an element of truth to this. I'd put out the word through various acquaintances that I could provide certain services discreetly. The result had been my first contact with Stafford. Shortly after that, my license to operate a private security service had come through, despite the less-than-fully-honorable discharge from the Army that I had on my record. I couldn't pretend that the two had been unconnected.

Still, I didn't appreciate him reminding me of it. So I turned my attention back to my drink, ignoring him

and waiting patiently while he jittered.

"All right," he finally blurted. "I can't make a firm commitment. But we'll talk about it after she's safely delivered."

"Fair enough," I allowed, deciding it wouldn't be a good idea to push him too far in his present emotional state. Shortly thereafter, I departed, seeking my car. Even the hookers on Fourteenth Street seemed subdued. Everybody was subdued these days-except Stafford, who acted like he was fending off a nervous breakdown.

My apartment-c.u.m-office was east of Rock Creek Park, which was why I could afford it. It wasn't bad, though. I had half of the second story of an established-but-not-dilapidated four-story building just off Dupont Circle. My three front windows were up where most pa.s.sersby never look, above the storefront first floor. The doorway in the entry hall at the stairway landing, with its understated plaque reading Robert Devaney, Security Services, led directly into the office part: very basic, for I had no receptionist, nor any need of one. I'd found it was cheaper to hire an answering service-this was decades before voice mail, remember-and return any calls that seemed promising. Stafford and a few others knew the code-phrases to drop. So the office was really a place to do whatever paperwork I couldn't avoid, not to impress clients. I suppose it had been somebody's parlor, once upon a time. Behind the desk was a door leading to the living area, consisting of three rooms with the usual functions. In addition, there was what had clearly been a workshop. I'd hired a carpenter to conceal one wall of it behind a kind of shallow cabinet. The wall itself held hooks and racks to support tools. Now they held my tools-two of which I selected the following morning.

Even then, the Colt 1911 A1 was considered old-fashioned almost to the point of obsolescence. I still liked it, for its reliability and for the sheer stopping power of its .45 ACP slug. It went into an armpit holster-it was just barely small enough to carry that way, even under a loose-fitting jacket. Another holster fit around my right ankle. It held a Beretta .25, a gun on which I wasted very little respect. In fact, I regarded it as just the thing for a firefight in a phone booth. But it was very concealable, which covers a mult.i.tude of sins in a last-ditch holdout weapon.

In case you're wondering: no, I didn't usually go this heavily armed. But something about Stafford's manner had worried me. That, and the fact that they were hiring me-and even willing to consider a bonus, if Stafford was to be believed-for a job which, from his description, a chauffeur could have handled. This told me there was more to it than he was admitting. I didn't particularly resent his lack of candor-it wasn't like he owed me anything. But neither did I intend to go in blind without taking precautions.

Washington's cozy medium-sized-city ambience in those days had its negative points. One of these was National Airport, the inadequacy of which had long been a staple of local grumbling. It was hard to forget about; all you had to do was look toward the Potomac, at the procession of low-flying planes had become a permanent backdrop to the Lincoln Memorial. It became even more obvious as you drove over Arlington Memorial Bridge, caught the George Washington Memorial Highway south, and got into the traffic. Some people actually liked this stretch of road. I didn't, because it took me past the Pentagon, with its unwelcome memories.

The flight I was to meet was a Northwest Boeing 707 from Minneapolis. The crowd was fairly light, and

the plane clearly hadn't been full. I had no trouble spotting "Miss Smith."

She was taller than I'd expected, and possibly a little younger, but just as severe as her photo had indicated. Her makeup was minimal, her suit businesslike, and her dark hair pulled back into a tight bun.

I stepped forward diffidently.

"Miss Smith?" ("Ms." was yet another linguistic barbarism that still lay in the future.) "I'm Mr. Jones." I

extended my hand, even though you were supposed to let a lady do that first, in those days.

She looked me over in a way that wasn't altogether flattering-or maybe that was just my oversensitive nature-and made no move to shake my hand. "Is my transportation ready, Mr. Jones?"So much for small talk, I decided. "Yeah. Let's get your luggage and-""I have everything right here." She indicated the overnight bag she was carrying."Oh. Well, then . . ." I extended my hand again, this time to take the bag."I'll keep it with me, if you don't mind.""Okay. Fine. Right this way."She gave my '59 Dodge an inspection not unlike the one she'd given me. "Hey, it gets me there and it gets me back," I ventured as I held the door for her.

"It suits you," she observed, settling into the pa.s.senger's seat and keeping the bag on her lap.

"Somehow, I could tell you thought so." I got in behind the wheel and pulled out the envelope which I,

continuing to play Stafford's little games, had kept sealed until now. I slit it open, curious, and read the

address.

Several obscenities were out of my mouth before I caught myself and turned to "Miss Smith" sheepishly.

She looked more amused than offended.