Murder at the National Cathedral by Margaret Truman

will be instrumental in bringing about a just and lasting peace for people all over this globe. You are truly a man of God.”
    St. James was now even more uncomfortable. He withdrew his hand from the Korean’s metal-wrapped fingers and escorted him to the door. “You’ll be at Paul’s funeral?”
    “Of course,” said Tse. “Indeed, hundreds of supporters of Word of Peace will be there to pay a final tribute to one of the most gentle and committed men I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.”
    “Yes, well, thank you for coming here today. Good-bye.”
    Tse was driven away from the cathedral in a large gray Mercedes sedan that had been parked at the doors of the south transept. The driver turned left onto Wisconsin Avenue, which took them in the direction of Georgetown. A nondescript green Ford Fairlane that had been parked across the street fell in behind them. Two young men with close, neat haircuts were in the second car. The man on the passenger side dialed a number on the vehicle’s car phone. A female voice answered, “NIS.”
    “Samuels.”
    “One second.”
    A male voice came on the line.
    “Samuels. We’re continuing contact with Buddha by vehicle.”
    The man on the other end, who managed the surveillance unit, said, “Report again when mode of contact changes.”
    “Right,” the young man named Samuels said. He hung up the phone and said to the driver, “Are Marsch and Williamson picking up from us later?”
    The driver said, “No, they’re over at the priest’s apartment. I don’t know who’s spelling us, and I don’t care, as long as I get to go home by eight. If I don’t, someone will kill me and you’ll have another investigation. Look for my wife. It’s our anniversary.”
    The Mercedes pulled up to the entrance of the Watergate Hotel, and Tse emerged. His driver pulled away. “I’ll pick up Buddha,” Samuels said, jumping out of the car. As the driver was about to follow the Mercedes, Samuels said through the open window, “If you don’t make it home for your anniversary, my couch opens up. See ya.”

9
    Monday Morning—Overcast and Chilly; Funeral Weather
    The Right Reverend George St. James, bishop of Washington, looked out at the thousands of faces of those who’d gathered in the cathedral’s nave to mourn the loss of Canon Paul Singletary. His mind wandered for a moment. He peered down the more-than-five-hundred-foot aisle leading from the altar to the west entrance and, distracting himself from the unpleasant task at hand, observed once more with interest that the aisle wasn’t straight, that it did a little jig at approximately the halfway point, a deliberate act by the architect to avoid the “narrowing railroad track” visual phenomenon.
    He cleared his voice and said from the pulpit,
“They do rest from their labors and their works do follow them.”
His words rang out through the cavernous cathedral.
    Joining Bishop St. James at the high altar were othermembers of the cathedral’s and St. Albans’s clergy, including Jonathon Merle and a young priest from St. Albans, Carolyn Armstrong. Annabel, who’d come to know Reverend Armstrong while planning the forthcoming show in Annabel’s gallery, had remarked to Mac after first meeting her that the young woman was striking, and all the more so because of what she represented. She was one of those fortunate women who need no makeup, and the fact that she could present a bare and unadorned face to the world worked perfectly with her calling. An aura of sweet divinity surrounded her. At the same time, she was a woman who could hardly be missed. She was tall and had thick black hair that she rarely wore loose; when attending to her priestly duties she caught it up into a casual chignon. Her skin was flawless, and the contours of an amply endowed body were only partially obscured beneath her vocational garb.
    Mac and Annabel held hands as they sat in one of the forward pews. Their thoughts sometimes coincided, other