“Do you have anything else to report?” Browning asked, opening a file folder on which TOP SECRET was stamped in red.

“Only one thing,” Crowley said.

“Which is?”

“I met with the source’s handler in Amman before coming here. He mentioned something about a Canadian connection.”

“Canadian connection? That’s intriguing. What sort of connection?”

“I don’t know, nor did the handler. He hadn’t mentioned it in previous messages. I assume it was simply an oversight.”

“Oversights, like loose lips, can get us killed,” said Browning.

Crowley said nothing. He wanted the meeting to be over.

“Well,” Browning said, “this was a long way for you to come with so little new to offer.”

Criticism or sympathy?

“I wish I had more.”

Browning walked him to the door. “Will you be staying in Washington long?” he asked.

“A day or two. I can be reached through our embassy.”

“I thought you might enjoy taking in a baseball game while you’re here. We have a new team, the Nationals. I know you don’t have baseball in the U.K. and thought it would be a new experience. Have you ever been to a game?”

“No, I haven’t.” Nor do I have any interest in doing so.

“Give me a call if you’d like to go. They’re playing at home tomorrow night.”

As Crowley headed for his hotel, where he intended to order a bottle of good Scotch and have it and dinner sent to his room, Joe Browning met with his superiors at Homeland Security.

“So he had nothing new to offer,” his boss said.

“Right, except for some vague reference to a Canadian connection.”

“We’ll follow up on that.”

“All we know at this juncture,” said Browning, “is that the terrorists, presumably with bin Laden’s blessing, have decided to forgo hitting big targets and concentrate on assassinating top political leaders here in D.C.”

“Maybe claiming that Washington is the focus is a red herring. Maybe they intend to strike elsewhere.”

“Where else?” Browning said. “If you’re out to kill top political leaders, this is the place to do it.”

“I’ll run it past the secretary. Are you impressed with Crowley?”

“He’s old.”

“I mean, does he seem to know what he and his sources are talking about?”

“I suppose we’ll see,” Browning responded. “Right now, he’s pretty much our only conduit to this new initiative by the terrorists. He still has someone in Amman, who’s working on developing new sources. The original was assassinated.”

“Unfortunate. See me later.”

It had been a long, tough day for M.T., whose undercover code name was “Steamer.” He’d spent the day supervising the installation of boilers in an Amman factory. He was hot and dirty, and wanted a hot shower and a hearty dinner at one of Amman’s fancy restaurants, preferably with a member of the opposite sex. It wasn’t easy making connections with attractive females. He wasn’t the handsomest of men, and his belly-which hung over his belt, no matter how hard he tried to suck it up-was a turnoff, he knew, to many women. Maybe if he could reveal his second, clandestine life, he’d have more appeal.

The problem this night was that he had an appointment to keep, and it wasn’t with a ravishing, dark-eyed Jordanian, or a buxom, redheaded employee of the British Embassy or British companies doing business in Jordan. Tonight’s rendezvous was with an Iraqi he’d begun cultivating as a source to replace Ghaleb Rihnai.

He hadn’t told Crowley about this new potential source of information from inside Iraq, or the terrorist cells that existed in Amman. This Iraqi, whom M.T. had met on one of his boiler installations, professed to suffer shame for the acts of Arab terrorists, and claimed to have contacts within Iraq who were privy to the insurgency’s inner councils. M.T. wasn’t sure whether to pursue the relationship. Rihnai’s brutal murder had shaken him. Maybe it was time to sever ties with Crowley and the others who’d recruited him with the lure of money and an appeal to his innate sense of patriotism and decency.

He left the job site and grabbed a fast bite from a sidewalk vendor before driving out to the appointed meeting place, a deserted, dilapidated barn on an abandoned farm. The Iraqi was there when he arrived. Inside the barn, the smell of decaying wood and fermenting grain was pungent. Steamer suggested going outside, but the Iraqi said he felt more secure inside.

They discussed what M.T. expected of the Iraqi. He wanted to know everything that was discussed by the terrorists, especially their future plans. The Iraqi assured M.T. that he could, and would, deliver.

“How much will I be paid?” the Iraqi asked.

“That depends on how much useful information you deliver.”

“I want money now,” the Iraqi said.

M.T. had started to explain the realities of how money was paid for such information when a sound from behind caused him to stop in mid-sentence and to turn. Four young men wearing stocking masks leaped on him. One wielded a long, curved knife that he plunged into Steamer’s thick neck. His assailants, slight of build, had a difficult time subduing the large and strong Brit, but as blood poured from his neck, he weakened and fell helplessly to the hard dirt floor. The Iraqi whom he’d befriended-or thought he had-pulled a small, silver revolver from his waistband and fired two shots into Steamer’s forehead.

The Brit was dead, and the five young men left the barn to celebrate their coup.

TWENTY-ONE

Director Anthony Zambrano held court at the beginning of that night’s rehearsal of Tosca at the Takoma Park facility. He was in an expansive mood, telling tales of various productions of that opera he’d directed around the world, and of some of the “Toscas” with whom he’d worked.

“You all know the story of Floria Tosca,” he said, “and of her calamitous love affair with the doomed revolutionary Cavaradossi.” He looked at Mac Smith and his colleagues from academia. “But for those of you unfamiliar with this remarkable tale of love, lust, and betrayal, let me give you a synopsis.

“It takes place in 1800, and begins in the Church of Sant’Andrea della Valle in Rome, where the painter Cavaradossi works on a canvas, unaware that a political prisoner, Angelotti, has escaped and is hiding in the chapel. Cavaradossi’s lover, the famed diva Floria Tosca, arrives and sees that the beautiful young woman in Cavaradossi’s painting has blond hair and blue eyes, unlike Tosca. She suspects that he has been unfaithful to her and rants. He eventually calms her down and assures her of his fidelity, which gives them the excuse to sing a lovely duet. Satisfied, she leaves after agreeing to meet later that evening. Her line as she leaves is absolutely beguiling: ‘Change the eyes to black!’

“Angelotti emerges from where he’s been hiding, and his friend Cavaradossi takes him to his villa, where he’ll be safe from the police who are hunting him. Tosca returns to meet her lover but finds him gone. Instead, the sinister, lecherous Baron Scarpia, head of the Roman police, is there with his men in search of Angelotti. He reinforces Tosca’s doubts about Cavaradossi’s fidelity, and sends her on her way. Little does she know, Scarpia has instructed his officers to follow her, certain that she’ll lead them to Angelotti.”

Zambrano lowered his voice and twisted a nonexistent handlebar moustache. “And we learn that Scarpia desires the lovely Tosca for himself.”

There were a few “Ooohs” and “Aaahs,” and a solo giggler.

Zambrano continued. “Angelotti is still at large when Act II opens, but Cavaradossi is in custody for having aided his friend’s escape. When he refuses to reveal Angelotti’s hiding place, he’s taken to the torture chamber. Tosca arrives. Hearing her lover’s tortured moans, she tells Scarpia where he can find Angelotti. Cavaradossi is brought bloody but defiant from the torture chamber and curses Scarpia and his methods. Cavaradossi is again arrested, led away, and sentenced to die.”