Secretary Halliday?and Black River. Now she?s the victim of a car bomb.? She allowed that pronouncement to hang in the air for a moment before continuing. ?The only way to get to the bottom of the mystery is eyes on the ground. I need to go to Khartoum.?
?Soraya, Sudan is far too dangerous for a director to??
?Typhon has an agent in place in Khartoum.?
?Good, let him investigate.?
?This is too big, Peter, the ramifications too grave. Besides, after all that?s happened, I don?t trust anyone.?
?What about this Chalthoum character? He?s the head of al Mokhabarat, for chrissakes.?
?Believe me, he has as much to lose from this situation as we do.?
?It?s incumbent on me to point out that your agent in Khartoum can?t guarantee your safety.?
By his tone, she knew he?d acquiesced. ?No one can, Peter. Keep DCI Hart?s phone with you. I?ll keep you apprised.?
?Okay, but??
As Soraya severed the connection, she looked at Amun. ?The director of Central Intelligence was just killed in Washington by a car bomb. This situation stinks, Amun. We?re not up against Iranian terrorists, I know it. Will you come with me to Khartoum??
Amun rolled his eyes, then threw his hands into the air. ?Azizti, what choice have you left me??
After Moira and Humphry Bamber exited the taxi in Foggy Bottom, he led her west across the bridge and into Georgetown. He was nervous, walking so quickly that several times she had to take him by the arm to slow him down because he was too terrified to listen to her. Along the way she checked plate-glass windows and cars? side-mirrors for any signs of a tail, both vehicular and pedestrian. At least twice she had them walk around the block or enter a shop as a double blind, to make certain they were absolutely clean. Only then would she allow Bamber to take her to their destination.
This turned out to be on R Street: a redbrick Federal-style town house with a copper mansard roof and four dormer windows where fat-breasted pigeons sat, cooing drowsily. They climbed the slate steps, and Bamber used the brass knocker on the polished wooden door. In a moment it swung inward to reveal a slender man with longish brown hair, green eyes, and angular cheekbones.
?H, you look?What happened to you??
?Chrissie, this is Moira Trevor. Moira, meet Christian Lamontierre.?
?The dancer??
Bamber was already on the threshold. ?Moira saved my life. Can we come in??
?Saved your ? Of course.? Lamontierre stepped back into the small, jewel-like entryway. He did so with a grace and power no untrained human being could muster. ?Where are my manners?? His face was clouded by worry. ?Are you two all right? I can call my doctor.?
?No doctor,? Moira said.
As their host closed the heavy door, Bamber double-locked it.
Seeing this, Lamontierre said, ?I think we could use a drink.? He gestured, leading the way into a beautifully appointed living room in dove gray and cream. It was a world of calm and elegance. Books on ballet and modern dance were scattered about the coffee table; on shelves were photos of Lamontierre on stage and in informal poses with Martha Graham, Mark Morris, Bill T. Jones, and Twyla Tharp, among others.
They sat on gray-and-silver?striped sofas while Lamontierre crossed to a sideboard, then abruptly turned.
?You two look like you need a rest and some food. Why don?t I toddle on off to the kitchen and make us all something to eat??
Without waiting for a reply, he left them alone, for which Moira was grateful, since she had a number of questions she wanted to ask Bamber without causing him embarrassment.
Bamber was one step ahead of her. Sighing as he leaned back against the sofa, he said, ?When I hit my thirties, it began to dawn on me that men weren?t designed to be monogamous, either physically or emotionally. We were designed to propagate, to continue the species at all costs. Being gay doesn?t change that biological imperative.?
Moira recalled him telling her that he was taking her somewhere even Stevenson hadn?t known about. ?So you?ve been having an affair with Lamontierre.?
?It would?ve killed Steve to talk about it.?
?You mean he knew??
?Steve wasn?t stupid. And he was intuitive, if not about himself, then about those around him. He might have suspected, or not. I don?t know. But his self-image wasn?t the best; he was always concerned that I would leave him.? He rose, poured some water for both of them, brought the glasses back, and handed one to her.
?I wouldn?t have left him, not