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catastrophe, the U.S. State Department always had the right words ready. He’d probably said the same thing to a hundred other widows.
    Now he was waiting for her response, so she did what was expected of any widow. She pulled herself together. Reaching out, she shook his hand and thanked him. Then she turned and walked out the door.
    * * *
    â€œD O YOU THINK she knows?”
    Nick stared at the door that had just closed behind SarahFontaine’s retreating figure. He turned and glanced at Tim Greenstein. “Knows what?”
    â€œThat her husband was a spook?”
    â€œHell, we don’t even know that.”
    â€œNick my man, this whole thing reeks of espionage. Geoffrey Fontaine was a total nonentity till a year ago. Then his name shows up on a wedding license, he has a brand new Social Security number, a passport and what have you. The FBI doesn’t seem to know a damn thing. But intelligence—they’ve got the guy’s file under classified! Am I dumb or what?”
    â€œMaybe I’m the dumb one,” grunted Nick. He walked to his desk and dropped into the chair. Then he scowled at the Fontaine file. Tim was right, of course. The case stank to high heaven of funny business. Espionage? International crime? An ex-federal witness, hiding from the mob?
    Who the hell was Geoffrey Fontaine?
    Nick slouched down and threw his head back against the chair. Damn, he was tired. But he couldn’t get Geoffrey Fontaine out of his head. Or Sarah Fontaine, for that matter.
    He’d been surprised when she walked into the office; he’d been expecting someone with a little more sophistication. Her husband had been a world-class traveler, a guy who’d whisked through London and Berlin and Amsterdam. A man like that should have a wife who was sleek and elegant. Instead, in had walked this skinny, awkward creature who was almost, but not quite, pretty. Her face had been too full of angles: high, sharp cheeks, a narrow nose, a square forehead softened only by a gentle widow’s peak. Her long hair had been a rich, coppery color; even tied back in a ponytail, it had been beautiful. Her horn-rimmed glasses had somehow amused him. They had framed two wide, amber-colored eyes—her best feature. With no makeup and with that pale, delicate complexion,she’d seemed much younger than the thirty or so years she must be.
    No, she was not quite pretty. But throughout the interview Nick had found himself staring at her face and wondering about her marriage. And about her.
    Tim rose. “Hey, all this grief is making me hungry. Let’s hit the cafeteria.”
    â€œNot the cafeteria. Let’s go out. I’ve been sitting in this building all morning, and I’m going stir-crazy.” Nick pulled on his jacket, and together they walked out past Angie’s desk and headed for the stairs.
    Outside a brisk spring wind blew in their faces as they strode down the sidewalk. The buds were just starting to swell on the cherry trees. In another week the whole city would be awash in pink and white flowers. It was Nick’s first D.C. springtime in eight years—he’d forgotten how pretty it could be, walking through the trees. He thrust his hands in his pockets and hunched over a little as the wind bit through his wool jacket.
    Vaguely he wondered whether Sarah Fontaine had reached her apartment yet, whether she was lying across her bed now, sobbing her eyes out. He knew he’d been rough on her. It had bothered him, hounding her like that, but someone had to break through all of her denial. She had to understand the facts. It was the only way she’d ever really recover from her grief.
    â€œWhere we going, Nick?” asked Tim.
    â€œHow about Mary Jo’s?”
    â€œThat salad place? What, are you on a diet or something?”
    â€œNo, but it’s quiet there. I’m not into loud conversation right now.”
    After two more blocks, they turned into the