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of her character, the way she stood up for her beliefs, untainted by all that feminist nonsense. Intelligent, perceptive, a sense of humor lingering beneath the businesslike façade. And here they were, adversaries by nature and specifically at odds on the artifact project. Why was it that every time his genes responded positively to a woman, she was unattainable? For all he knew, she was married or with someone.
    Why wouldn’t she be?

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
    Washington, DC
    September 2004
     
    Andrea caught the one-stop red-eye from Raleigh-Durham to Washington, arriving in her Watergate office before six a.m. She had slept on the plane in a first-class seat after two relaxing martinis and felt energized, but not refreshed, sensing the traveler’s body slime beneath her stale undergarments and wrinkled suit. She hobbled through the sparsely populated cubicles on the eighth floor of NNC-TV headquarters leaving a trail of ‘thanks’ to the night crew for their compliments on her newscast special as she made her way to the women’s changing room. Andrea shed her clothes in front of her locker, scrubbed the grime away beneath a hot shower, luxuriating through a double shampoo and conditioning.
    Back in her office, she flicked on her computer before changing from her robe to a pair of jeans and maroon cotton pullover. The cramped room looked like the occupant was in the process of moving in or out: the hard rubber surface of her gray metal desk contained only an oversized ashtray, green banker’s lamp and TV remote; a computer workstation occupied a credenza to the left of her desk; an open cardboard box stuffed with Pendaflex file folders sat on a wooden chair at the right. Matching brass floor lamps stood at either end of a floral-print sofa along the outer wall, on which one of twin green throw cushions stated that ‘Life sucks...’ in black embroidery, the other completing the phrase ‘...and then you die’.
    A low drop-leaf cocktail table in front of the sofa held another ashtray and a vase of artificial flowers. Black and white photos on the inside wall showed her standing with Margaret Thatcher, another with Germaine Greer, the third with Hillary Clinton. A TV monitor hung from brackets on the wall opposite her desk beneath clocks depicting the time in various parts of the world. There were no windows in the tiny room, and the fluorescent ceiling fixtures had been disconnected in her preference for the subdued lighting from her desk and side lamps.
    She pressed a memory button on her phone console that dialed an internal number.
    “Commissary,” the accented voice came over the speaker.
    “Cookie,” she said, leaning over to get her note pad out of the carryall beside her desk, “how about a big glass of o. j., two poached eggs, ham, toasted bagel, cream cheese and a pot of black?”
    “In my country, after last night you get beating and crust bread in Lubyanka this morning.”
    “Well, we ain’t in your country, Cookie, and I’m starving. So let’s skip the beating and get the grub up here pronto.”
    “Pronto?”
    “Fast, quick, now, get your ass in gear!” tout de suite ,
    “Pronto!” Cookie repeated. “Ass in gear!”
    Andrea broke the connection and dialed another inside number that was picked up on the first ring. “Good morning, Princess.”
    “You been here all night, Sammy?”
    “If I’d gone to sleep after your midnight call, you’d have sent the knee-breakers over.”
    “You better believe it, pal. Did you locate any troopers in Mitchell’s platoon?”
    “Your big bad general must have pulled his Bravo Company from every army database right after your interview,” Sammy said. “Eighty-Second Division website, Iraq War Historical, couple of others.”
    “Damn! I should have thought of that.”
    “Hindsight.”
    “Did any Second Platoon soldiers log onto their unofficial veterans website exchange?”
    “I haven’t checked. Been surfing a