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with you? Is there anyone at home who can bring it to you?”
    Adelina shook her head. “We’re … refugees, I guess. She had the stroke when we were attacked just before crossing the border from the United States. I’ve asked for asylum.”
    “Oh, dear. Well … I’ll write you a prescription for Ativan then. Good luck with your application.”
    Adelina sank back into her chair. Three people in a row had been incredibly kind to her. She thought about how isolated she always was. It had been since the 1980s when she last had friends. Richard had put a stop to that, insisting that she never go alone anywhere except church or school events.
    I don’t want you hanging out with the Rainsleys any more. Charles always has his eyes all over you, and Brianna does too.
    They’re friends, she’d replied.
    You don’t get friends, Adelina. You raise your daughters and go to church and you behave. Understand?
    As the years went by, she’d hated Richard Thompson more and more.
Bear. May 5.
    “Scott Kelly speaking,” said the rough voice on the line.
    “It’s Bear.”
    “Bear! When are you coming back?”
    “Heh, that’s a funny joke. I’m suspended, asshole.”
    “Yeah?”
    “You got time to meet? I got some questions for you. It’s about your sisters.” Kelly didn’t have any sisters, and Bear knew it.
    “Sisters? Yeah, sure. Where?”
    Bear thought for a moment. Huh. He knew a good place with a loud fountain. The International Monetary Fund had a large building at 19 th and Pennsylvania, which wasn’t a bad walk from State or from Bear’s apartment.
    “Meet me at 19 th and L. Coffee shop in the lobby of the IMF building.”
    “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Kelly said. “You’re buying.”
    “I’m unemployed, motherfucker.”
    Kelly laughed and hung up the phone.
    Eighteen minutes later, John “Bear” Wyden walked into the ground floor of the tan stone and glass headquarters of the International Monetary Fund. Outside, like all government and quasi-governmental buildings in Washington, the building was surrounded by concrete bollards and plants, which looked decorative but were designed to protect against car bombers coming into contact with the building.
    Inside, only a small area was open to the public, a coffee shop on the ground floor and a cafeteria on the second floor, accessible via escalator. Otherwise the building had fairly tight security, with armed guards checking credentials and running people through metal detectors.
    Bear walked toward the coffee shop and muttered a curse. Kelly had beaten him there. Which meant Bear was buying.
    Kelly joined him in line. In a conversational tone, he said, “You won’t believe who I talked with for the first time ever this morning.”
    “Yeah? Who’s that?”
    “A certain Vietnam vet turned Senator turned Cabinet Secretary. He called me up to tell me that I’m officially in charge of the State Department side of the investigation—that you’ve been suspended indefinitely. He also told me that informally , I’m to cooperate with you. Which I would have done anyway.”
    Bear chuckled. “I bet that caught your attention.”
    “What is going on, Bear? The IRS and Justice Department just crawled up my ass. They’re all over this investigation, Diplomatic Security is just peons now. I’m making copies of documents for the independent counsel.”
    They had reached the front of the line. Bear ordered a thick mocha with whipped cream and a chocolate croissant, one of his several vices. Kelly snorted when Bear placed the order, and said, “Give me coffee and a donut.”
    Two minutes later they were sitting next to the loud, glistening marble fountain in the ten-story atrium. “All right, so who is actually running the show now?”
    “Guy named Rory Armitage. Independent counsel, he was contracted out by the Justice Department and handed a whole bunch of investigators and a near unlimited budget.”
    “You’d have to have that to go after the