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As he walked up 19 th Street, headed back to DuPont Circle, his mind circled around and around. Then he landed on a neat solution. He knew somebody with access to high-level officials, lots of staff and information, and who had no trouble flying all over the place chasing information. It went against every instinct he had, which meant it might be an awful idea—or a brilliant one.
    His brow furrowed. Then he took the phone out and dialed 411.
    “ The Washington Post , please. Editorial offices, not subscriptions.”
    He was connected sixty seconds later. It took a couple of minutes to get through receptionists, but then he landed directly in Anthony Walker’s voicemail.
    “Yeah—Walker. This is Bear Wyden. Call me.” He gave the number and hung up.
    He sighed as he walked. He felt better rested today than he had since Andrea Thompson had arrived in the United States on April 28 th , one week before. Leah was stabilizing, and she was awake and crabby as ever. The kids had to be told they couldn’t climb all over her due to holes in her body. Teenagers—just like toddlers.
    Leah , he thought. Time to move on, Bear. She’s remarried.
    Yeah, he knew.
    His cell phone rang. It was a 202 area code—Washington, DC. He answered.
    “Mister Wyden? It’s Anthony Walker.”
    “Call me Bear, please.”
    “All right. Call me Anthony. What can I do for you?”
    “I think you and I have some things in common right now. Want to get together?”
    “Sure. I’m at the Thompson condo right now. The FBI forensics team turned the condo back over to Carrie.”
    “I’ll head up the red line then, and meet you there. I need to talk to them, too.”
    “See you shortly, then.”

Andrea. May 5 .
    Andrea leaned back in her seat, luxuriating in the rare feeling of relaxation. The morning sunlight shone through the glass of the sunroom, and for the first time since her departure from Spain a week before, she’d slept the night through.
    She still didn’t trust Prince George-Phillip. She might never. But at least, for once, she felt safe.
    Just outside the glass door of the sunroom, Dylan sat on a bench. He had a cigarette in his right hand, and a pen in the other, writing furiously in a small notebook Andrea hadn’t seen before. She didn’t know what he was writing about, but his expression was pained, sometimes furious. Dylan had barely been civilized when he first woke up, and immediately poured the coffee and went outside, leaving Andrea to Prince George-Phillip— her father.
    “Your friend has a real storm on his brow,” George-Phillip observed.
    Andrea shrugged. “He served in Afghanistan. And Ray Sherman was his best friend.”
    George-Phillip’s face softened. “Carrie’s husband.”
    “Yes,” Andrea replied.
    “I want to reach out to her.” As he said the words, his eyebrows moved furiously. Andrea tried to interpret their dance, but she couldn’t.
    “Why?” she asked.
    George-Phillip blinked. “What do you mean, why? She’s my daughter, just as you are.”
    Andrea sat up, studying him. Then she said, “Don’t do us any favors.”
    “I truly wish I hadn’t hurt you so terribly.” He sighed as he said the words.
    “El camino al infierno esta empedrado de buenas intenciones,” Andrea muttered. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
    George-Phillip raised an eyebrow.
    “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Just … this is all a shock. I just wish I could trust it.”
    George-Phillip sighed. “I do too. It will take some time, but I promise you, I will prove it to you, and to your sister Carrie.”
    “So what’s next?” she asked.
    “I have a meeting with your President this morning, and several other meetings in the afternoon with the Ambassador and others. This evening I would like to have you and Dylan for dinner. And—I’d also like to invite your sisters. Carrie, at least, and the others if they wish to come.”
    “I think Alexandra will come,” Andrea said. “Dylan’s