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they’d ever been used. Sixteen-by-sixteen-inch columns supported the network of eight-inch beams, which in turn held up the thirty-foot ceiling. Typical of every time Jonathan had visited the place, the sheer volume of space seemed to absorb all the available light, bathing everything and everyone in perpetual dusk.
    Jonathan and Boxers followed as Irene led the way to the pair of men, who made no move to step forward to meet them. Jonathan wondered if maybe Irene had instructed them to hang back, so as not to spook the newcomers.
    Irene gestured with an open palm to the man Jonathan recognized. “Douglas Winters, meet Jonathan Grave of Fisherman’s Cove, Virginia.” To Jonathan, she added, “And as you guessed, Mr. Winters is the president’s chief of staff.”
    Winters flashed a politician’s smile and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure,” he said.
    Jonathan hated politicians’ smiles. They rang too many warning bells. But there was no reason not to shake hands. He said nothing, though.
    The smile faltered. “I’m getting the feeling that maybe you didn’t vote for my boss,” Winters said.
    “I don’t remember who I voted for,” Jonathan said, refusing to rise to the bait. “Far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t matter. Been sent to war by both parties, been lied to by both.” On the spectrum of species that Jonathan admired, politicians occupied a spot significantly south of the sand flea.
    “And to think you were never a diplomat,” Irene said. “This is Jonathan’s business partner, Boxers.”
    Winters’ eyes flashed. “Boxer? More like mastiff, if you ask me. You’re a big fella.”
    This time, Boxers looked less concerned about hurting the hand he shook, and the corners of Winters’ eyes twitched from the pressure. Boxers didn’t like to be teased.
    Irene next gestured toward the shortest of the suits, the one whose distended jacket spoke of a holstered pistol. “And this is Director Ramsey Miller,” she said. “My counterpart at the United States Secret Service.”
    Miller nodded instead of shaking, and that was fine with Jonathan.
    “Quite the high-level meeting,” Jonathan said. “Secrecy, too. You’ve got my attention.”
    “Have you paid attention to the news this morning, Mr. Graves?” Miller asked.
    “It’s Grave,” Jonathan corrected. “No S . Get to it.”
    Every clandestine meeting Jonathan had ever attended—and there’d been hundreds of them over the years—presented a kind of tarantella that required early posturing. Such meetings always involved strong personalities, and all of the players wanted to be in charge. Jonathan thought of it as dick-knocking, and in this case, since he was clearly the one with the skills that others wanted, he got to be the obnoxious one.
    “The news reported a drive-by shooting last night,” Irene said, hijacking the narrative. “Six Secret Service agents were killed.”
    Actually, that did ring a bell. “At a DC nightclub, right?”
    “Exactly.”
    Jonathan gave another nod to Miller. “I’m sorry for your loss, sir.” He meant it, too. Losing a member of your unit felt like losing a member of your family.
    Miller said, “Thank you.”
    Jonathan said, “Not to get ahead, but the fact that we’re here leads me to believe that maybe the media got a few details wrong?”
    Miller deferred to Winters. “Well, they got it right insofar as they reported what we told them.”
    “Uh-oh,” Boxers grumbled.
    Winters continued. “The version of the story floated to the media has the agents dying on their own time during a random shooting. In reality, they were on duty, and protecting the First Lady.”
    Boxers rumbled out a chuckle. “I knew this was going to be good.”
    Jonathan said, “Was she stepping out again to someplace embarrassing?”
    “She was kidnapped, Mr. Grave,” Winters said.
    Jonathan’s jaw dropped. He didn’t surprise easily, but this one nailed him. He waited for the rest.
    “That’s all we