“Which is a good thing, because, as they say, all the others are taken.”
It took her a moment, but when she got it, she laughed, a big, happy laugh, showing a surprising alignment of teeth. The reason for her tight smile, maybe.
Mallory looked across the pool and saw a man with
The Economist
. It suddenly reminded him of a different magazine.
WA
.
Weekly American
.
CHURCH
.
Roger Church, the magazine’s editor
.
“What?” the woman asked.
“Nothing. I was just remembering something.”
Mallory stood. For a moment, her face sank, then she managed to restore the tight, interesting smile.
“Are you leaving?”
“I’m sorry. I need to make a call.”
“My name’s Gwen, by the way.” She reached to shake his hand.
“Fernando.”
“Really?”
He shrugged.
“Well. If you’d like to have a drink or something later, Fernando, I’ll probably just be hanging in the lounge.”
“I’ll look for you.”
THIRTEEN
M ALLORY DROVE BACK ALONG the George Washington Parkway and across Memorial Bridge into the city. Snaked through the late morning traffic and found a public parking garage near the State Department in Foggy Bottom. He walked seven blocks to the
Weekly American
offices, skirting the campus of George Washington University, which was busy with students. It was a brisk day, sixty degrees. Bright cloud towers hung in the sky; rain was coming.
Jon had been a contributing editor to the
Weekly American
for more than ten years, turning out news features and profiles from around the world. His editor, Roger Church, was once considered among Britain’s top investigative reporters. For most of the past decade, he had run the
Weekly American
in Washington, giving it, despite its moniker, an international following.
A bas relief map of the world covered much of one lobby wall. There was also a ceiling-tall trophy case and poster-size blowups of past magazine covers.
“To see Roger Church, please,” Mallory said to the receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Exactly the question he had expected.
“I don’t.”
She crinkled her face. “And your name?”
He told her.
“And this is in reference to …?”
“It’s not in reference to anything.”
“Okay.” He gazed at a magazine cover showing Bill Clinton and Boris Yeltsin at a joint press conference. 1998. Another, morerecent one: Vladimir Putin with Barack Obama, sharing a Russian breakfast.
The receptionist buzzed Church. Minutes later, a tall, thin man with a mop of silvery hair strode into the lobby and extended his hand. His tie was loosened several inches, his shirt sleeves turned up unevenly.
“Well, well,” he said. “A mystery come to life.”
“A pleasure.”
“Likewise. Please. Come on back.” Church dipped his head graciously and led Mallory into the corridor, taking loping, long-legged steps, past a series of small offices to his own large, immaculate corner space. He closed the door and nodded at the burgundy leather chair in front of his desk. Mallory took in the view—office buildings, the State Department, the tip of the Washington Monument.
“Been expecting you,” Church said.
“Sorry I took so long.”
“Have a seat. Here, let me get something for you.”
Church had the restless energy of a twenty-five-year-old and the weathered, lined face of an old man, just as his brother had once described him. When Mallory finally sat, Church crouched down behind his desk. Mallory leaned forward to see what he was doing: opening his wall safe.
He extracted a nine-by-twelve envelope, closed the safe, and passed it over the desktop.
“For you.”
“From my brother.”
He nodded and sat, resting his right thumb and forefinger on the handle of his steaming coffee cup.
“Where
is
Jon?” Mallory asked. “Do you know?”
“No idea. He told me he was going to disappear for a while. He has, evidently.” He nodded at the envelope. “Have a look.”
Mallory opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper
It took her a moment, but when she got it, she laughed, a big, happy laugh, showing a surprising alignment of teeth. The reason for her tight smile, maybe.
Mallory looked across the pool and saw a man with
The Economist
. It suddenly reminded him of a different magazine.
WA
.
Weekly American
.
CHURCH
.
Roger Church, the magazine’s editor
.
“What?” the woman asked.
“Nothing. I was just remembering something.”
Mallory stood. For a moment, her face sank, then she managed to restore the tight, interesting smile.
“Are you leaving?”
“I’m sorry. I need to make a call.”
“My name’s Gwen, by the way.” She reached to shake his hand.
“Fernando.”
“Really?”
He shrugged.
“Well. If you’d like to have a drink or something later, Fernando, I’ll probably just be hanging in the lounge.”
“I’ll look for you.”
THIRTEEN
M ALLORY DROVE BACK ALONG the George Washington Parkway and across Memorial Bridge into the city. Snaked through the late morning traffic and found a public parking garage near the State Department in Foggy Bottom. He walked seven blocks to the
Weekly American
offices, skirting the campus of George Washington University, which was busy with students. It was a brisk day, sixty degrees. Bright cloud towers hung in the sky; rain was coming.
Jon had been a contributing editor to the
Weekly American
for more than ten years, turning out news features and profiles from around the world. His editor, Roger Church, was once considered among Britain’s top investigative reporters. For most of the past decade, he had run the
Weekly American
in Washington, giving it, despite its moniker, an international following.
A bas relief map of the world covered much of one lobby wall. There was also a ceiling-tall trophy case and poster-size blowups of past magazine covers.
“To see Roger Church, please,” Mallory said to the receptionist.
“Do you have an appointment?”
Exactly the question he had expected.
“I don’t.”
She crinkled her face. “And your name?”
He told her.
“And this is in reference to …?”
“It’s not in reference to anything.”
“Okay.” He gazed at a magazine cover showing Bill Clinton and Boris Yeltsin at a joint press conference. 1998. Another, morerecent one: Vladimir Putin with Barack Obama, sharing a Russian breakfast.
The receptionist buzzed Church. Minutes later, a tall, thin man with a mop of silvery hair strode into the lobby and extended his hand. His tie was loosened several inches, his shirt sleeves turned up unevenly.
“Well, well,” he said. “A mystery come to life.”
“A pleasure.”
“Likewise. Please. Come on back.” Church dipped his head graciously and led Mallory into the corridor, taking loping, long-legged steps, past a series of small offices to his own large, immaculate corner space. He closed the door and nodded at the burgundy leather chair in front of his desk. Mallory took in the view—office buildings, the State Department, the tip of the Washington Monument.
“Been expecting you,” Church said.
“Sorry I took so long.”
“Have a seat. Here, let me get something for you.”
Church had the restless energy of a twenty-five-year-old and the weathered, lined face of an old man, just as his brother had once described him. When Mallory finally sat, Church crouched down behind his desk. Mallory leaned forward to see what he was doing: opening his wall safe.
He extracted a nine-by-twelve envelope, closed the safe, and passed it over the desktop.
“For you.”
“From my brother.”
He nodded and sat, resting his right thumb and forefinger on the handle of his steaming coffee cup.
“Where
is
Jon?” Mallory asked. “Do you know?”
“No idea. He told me he was going to disappear for a while. He has, evidently.” He nodded at the envelope. “Have a look.”
Mallory opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper
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