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alcohol she had drunk that night and the brand of cigarettes she had smoked. The vodka was Russian and the cigarettes were French.
    Iverson had taken the staff doctor, Dr. Adler, into the hallway while Angela conducted her analysis. Few members of the CIA staff outside of the DS&T laboratories had clearance regarding Angela’s true identity, and Iverson wanted to keep it that way. The staff doctor knew Angela as the deputy director’s daughter and a recently recruited agent of unmentioned expertise.
    Dr. Adler confirmed that the socialite had taken the LSD orally, no less than six hours earlier. Two club stamps were on her left arm, one on her wrist and one on the back of her left hand. Both stamps were from well-known clubs in Paris, France. A flight from France to Virginia took approximately seven hours, which led them to believe that she must have taken the LSD on the plane rather than at a club, though that seemed like an odd thing to do.
    “Maybe she was kidnapped and given the drug against her will,” Iverson offered.
    “I didn’t detect any signs of a struggle,” Dr. Adler said. “And you don’t often hear about LSD being used to kidnap young girls.”
    “Has anyone checked the flight records coming in from France?” Angela asked.
    Hearing Angela’s question, Iverson peeked around the doorframe and said, “Yes, we ran a check. Nothing yet.”
    As Angela was studying the club stamps on the back of the girl’s hand to determine the exact time she had patronized the clubs, Melissa’s head shifted slightly and she let out a moan.
    Iverson rushed into the room. “Stand back, Angela!”
    But it was too late. Melissa’s bloodshot eyes darted open. Her arms came out like striking snakes, elbows locking, two hands throttling Angela’s neck. She let out a maniacal sound like a revving engine, her hands tightening, her thumbs digging into the soft flesh of Angela’s throat. Choking, gasping for breath, Angela tried to pry apart the hands, but the grip was too tight. Her jiu-jitsu programming initiated. She dropped to her knees, using her body weight to break the hold, but Melissa fell with her, their bodies entangled in an avalanche of hospital blankets and I.V. tubes.
    Melissa was now on top of Angela, straddling her, her grip benefiting from the position. Veins were throbbing in her temples, her face flushed with blood. Her eyes were wide, filled with insanity, with rage. Did she know her victim, see her, or was someone else’s face above Angela’s neck? She let out a scream accompanied by chokehold thrusts. “You! Are! Invited!”
    Dr. Adler put Melissa in a full nelson to pry away her hold on Angela’s neck. Iverson was trying to grab at the girl’s flailing legs and was taking a few blows to the midsection in the process. Iverson finally got her by the ankles while Dr. Adler clutched her wrists. They lifted her, her body thrashing about in midair like a beach towel in the wind. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head and she let out a primal cry like a howling wolf. Then she went limp.
    They carried her to the bed.
    “Is she dead?” Iverson asked, out of breath.
    “No, just spent from the seizure,” Dr. Adler said.
    “That was a seizure?” Iverson asked.
    Angela got up and wearily made her way toward the safety of the hallway. Massaging her neck, coughing, eyes watering, her systems were scrambling to return her body to normal.
    Dr. Adler went to Angela. “That happens sometimes with trauma victims. Don’t take it personally. She didn’t know who you were. Let me see your throat.” With his fingers stabbing into her jaw, he pried her reluctant head back to inspect her neck. He peered over round, wire-rimmed glasses and said, “There’ll be a few bruises. Take a deep breath for me.”
    She inhaled and exhaled slowly.
    “Is she okay, Doctor?” Iverson asked.
    “A little bruising around the esophagus . . . she’ll be fine,” Dr. Adler concluded.
    Just as Iverson was counting his