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he’d been assigned to Luguire for nearly a year, few new business calls came to him. The phone was more of a glorified intercom.
    He figured some enterprising reporter must be seeking information about Luguire. If so, the guy was out of luck. Mullins had no intention of talking to the press.
    He decided to check the message anyway. He didn’t know when he’d be back in the office.
    “Mr. Mullins. I’m calling from Barnes and Noble at Clarendon.” A woman made the statement in a pleasant tone. “The book you ordered has come in and you can pick it up at the register. Remember, after five, your receipt entitles you to enjoy a free cup of coffee in our cafe. Thank you.” The call ended.
    Mullins punched one to repeat the message. The woman’s voice was familiar, but she spoke in such a sing-song, customer-service script that he couldn’t place her.
    He knew for sure he hadn’t ordered a book from Barnes and Noble.
    He also knew a rendezvous had been proposed at the bookstore only a few blocks from Luguire’s apartment building. Someone was being very cautious. Someone was afraid.

Chapter Eight
    Zaina Khoury brushed her daughter’s silky black hair, a mindless activity that served to break the boredom of being confined to the apartment. She hoped today would be the day Fares returned. The guard had hinted that the work would soon be over and everything would go back to the way it had been—Fares’ job, her home, and Jamila’s preschool.
    Jamila squirmed in her lap. Sesame Street ended and so did the distraction that kept the four-year-old still beneath the hair brush.
    “Let me finish,” Zaina said. “You want to look pretty for Daddy.”
    Jamila craned her neck toward the front door. “Daddy?”
    “No, sweetheart. Not now. But soon.”
    As if to belie the words, the knob rattled and the retracting deadbolt clicked sharply.
    “Daddy!” Jamila jumped from her mother and ran to the door. She froze as a stranger entered, carrying three bags from Burger King.
    “Get away.” The man waved the bags at the child.
    Zaina stood from the sofa and Jamila ran to hide behind her.
    “Take the burgers to the kitchen.” He kicked the door closed behind him.
    Zaina didn’t move. She’d never seen him before. He looked at them with flat dark eyes that showed no more emotion than if he were watching two stray dogs in the street.
    “Where’s Chuchi?” she asked. Although she didn’t like being cooped up in the apartment for two weeks, the Hispanic guard she knew only as Chuchi had been respectful, saying Fares was on an important mission to Washington, D.C., working to get their home back.
    “Chuchi’s done here. I’ll be staying until this is finished. Now take these and put the food on plates. I’m not eating from a sack like a horse.”
    Zaina hesitated only long enough to see the man shove the bags at her. He wore a collared, peach-colored shirt and cream-colored slacks. The shirt opened two buttons down his hairy chest, revealing a delicate gold chain. A sheen of sweat clung to his swarthy face. She wasn’t sure of his ethnicity. Somewhere in the Middle East, but not Lebanon. Zaina understood he wasn’t someone you challenged.
    She stepped toward him. “Okay. Come, Jamila.”
    “Your daughter stays,” the man ordered.
    “Why?”
    “Because I say so. Because you’ll work faster. And set proper places at the kitchen table.”
    Zaina turned around and knelt. “Jamila, Mommy needs you to wait here and talk to our guest. Sit on the sofa and tell him what happened on your TV show. Be a nice hostess. Can you do that?”
    Jamila looked at the man.
    “Listen to your mother. Then we’ll have a nice supper. Maybe we can make something for your daddy and I’ll see that he gets it.”
    Jamila scooted onto the sofa, pushing her tiny body into the far corner.
    “I’ll only be a few minutes,” Zaina said, as much to the stranger as her daughter. She grabbed the bags.
    He called after her, “Warm them in the