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They kept the surveillance teams on the apartment, waiting to see if their man, Faud Daraghmeh, returned. Fisher in the meantime sorted through various leads and made the rounds of the borough’s coffee shops. He did better with the latter than the former, finding a Greek place just a few blocks from the surveillance post that managed to impart a burned taste even to the first drop of liquid from the pot. As for Caliph’s Sons, the arrest of the men in the first apartment led to a variety of leads, none of which had panned out. Fisher wasn’t sure whether this was because the DIA had been charged with running them down, though he had his suspicions.

The command post for the surveillance operation was a second-story office up the street from the apartment, located over a twenty-four-hour Laundromat. The machines rumbled constantly, and the place was so hot that one of the detectives assigned to the post theorized that the dryers were being vented through some hidden mechanism directly into the office.

A bank of televisions fed by video cams showed every possible approach to the apartment; in addition, a small radar unit and two bugs gave the detectives and agents a full picture of what was happening inside.

Which was nothing.

Fisher surveyed the feeds for a few minutes, then picked up the latest intelligence summary on the case, which ran down intercepts the NSA had made with any possible connection. That, too, was a blank, with the only mention of a blackout coming in a conversation that clearly had to do with basketball coverage.

“You missed the morning quarterback session,” said Macklin, showing up with a bag of doughnuts around eleven. “Hunter was asking for you.”

“Use any four-letter words?”

“Many.” Macklin ripped open his bag and spread it over the table at the center of the room. “I’m thinking of pulling the plug on the surveillance. I have warrants so we can go search the place. What do you think?”

Fisher took two of the doughnuts from the table. “I think it’s time to find out how good a cup of coffee Mrs. DeGarmo makes.”

“DeGarmo? The landlady?”

“Yeah,” said Fisher. He checked his watch. “Maybe if we stay long enough, she’ll invite us for lunch. Plate of cold spaghetti would really hit the spot.”

“Who’s there?”

“Andy Fisher.”

“Who’s Andy Fisher?”

“FBI.”

“Who? The plumber?”

“Yeah. You have a leaky faucet?”

The doorknob turned and the heavy door creaked open. Fisher saw a pair of eyes peering at him about chest high.

“You’re a plumber?” she asked.

“FBI.” He showed her his Bureau “creds,” a small laminated ID card.

Mrs. DeGarmo squinted at it. In the right light, the picture looked a bit like that of a dead rat.

In bad light, it was the spitting image of one.

“Where’s your tools, if you’re a plumber?”

“I have to look at the leak first,” said Fisher.

“Okay,” said the woman, pulling the door open.

Lillian DeGarmo was ninety if a day. Her biceps sagged beneath her print housedress and her upper body pitched toward the floor. She tottered slightly as she walked but soon reached the kitchen, which lay just beyond the long entry hall.

“Sauce smells good,” said Fisher.

“The faucet’s in the bathroom, around the corner,” said the old lady, pointing to the doorway at the other end of the small kitchen.

“Actually, I’m here for something else,” said Fisher. “I’m an FBI agent. Say, is that coffee warm?”

“You want coffee?”

“Well, I have doughnuts,” said Fisher, pulling the doughnuts from his pocket.

“Oh, I can’t,” said Mrs. DeGarmo. “The doctor said they’re bad for my diabetes.”

“Doctors. Probably told you not to smoke, right?”

She pursed her lips for a moment.

“I hate doctors,” said Fisher, pulling out his cigarettes.

“Me too,” said Mrs. DeGarmo, grabbing the pack.

By the second cigarette Mrs. DeGarmo had told Fisher all she knew about her tenant. Faud Daraghmeh went to St. John’s University, where he was a prelaw student. He claimed to be Egyptian-he was actually from Yemen, according to the Immigration and Naturalization Service-and greatly admired the United States. Until a few days ago he had kept a very strict schedule, always in by nine o’clock and always in bed before the eleven o’clock news, which Mrs. DeGarmo watched religiously. He got up within a few minutes of eight o’clock every morning-during the Today show-and left by noon, before the afternoon soaps (she called them her “stories”) came on.

“You can hear him above the TV?” Fisher asked.

“Big feet,” said the old lady, waving her hand. “More coffee?”

“Sure,” said Fisher. “So a couple of days ago he just stopped coming home, huh?”

“Sometimes he goes away, but usually he tells me when he’ll be back. ‘Mrs. D,’ he says, ‘I go to see friend in Florida.’ ”

“ Florida?”

“I think he said that.”

“He said that this time?”

“No. Other times. This time, eh…ragazzi.”

Technically the word ragazzi meant “boys,” though coming from the old Italian lady the word implied much more.

“He’s a nice boy,” added Mrs. DeGarmo quickly. “He’s not in trouble, I hope.”

“Might be,” said Fisher.

“He’s very nice. He helped me out.”