“That’s still three hundred cards,” said Macklin. “We’ll check them all if we have to, but it’s going to take forever.”

Macklin’s office at the former drug dealers’ home had been one of the bedrooms. It was more than big, probably twice the size of Hunter’s back at FBI headquarters. The only problem was that the drug lords who’d owned the place had, for reasons best guessed at, covered the ceiling with mirrored panels, and Macklin hadn’t gotten around to taking them down. It was difficult to resist the temptation to watch Macklin’s reflection as he spoke; he’d begun to develop a bald spot, and it wrinkled whenever he opened his mouth.

Fisher saw the reflection of his own watch in the mirror. It was after four o’clock.

“I have to get going,” he said.

“Where to?” asked Macklin.

“Buy some flowers.”

Steve’s Florist was located four blocks from Mrs. DeGarmo’s building in a short row of buildings that seemed to be waiting for a demolition crew. The stores themselves, however, seemed busy, and inside the florist shop Fisher found himself at the back of a chaotic line. He drifted toward the back, watching the two clerks as they checked people out and occasionally dashed from the register to the refrigerated area where the flowers were kept. One was a middle-aged woman with bright orange hair and a miniskirt that stopped well above the thigh; the other was a twenty-something male whose white button-down shirt failed to hide a torso’s worth of tattoos. A third man was working in the back, loading up a van for deliveries; he left before Fisher got a look at him.

Fisher got the middle-aged woman.

“So, is Steve around?” Fisher asked.

“Steve?”

“The owner. It’s Steve’s Florist?”

“There is no Steve,” said the woman. “The owner’s name is Rose. She’s only in Monday mornings. I’m the manager.”

Explaining that he was with the FBI, Fisher laid a copy of the receipt and an artist’s sketch of Faud on the counter. The information meant about as much to them as Macklin’s pool on the Final Four meant to Fisher.

“He lived a couple of blocks away,” said Fisher.

“There are a lot of Arab men in the neighborhood,” said the woman, whose name tag read Mira. There was a note of challenge in her voice, as if she expected Fisher to flay his suspect when he caught him.

He wasn’t normally the flaying type, but nonetheless liked to keep his options open.

“I’m not really looking for other Arab men,” Fisher told her. “Just him.”

“Maybe Harry knows him,” said the young man. His name tag said his name was Pietro, though the kid looked Scandinavian, even with his tattoos.

“Who’s Harry?” asked Fisher.

“Works here on Sundays,” said Pietro. He took the receipt and looked at it. “Yup: Look. This was a Sunday.”

“Harry around?” Fisher said.

“It’s not Sunday,” said Mira.

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-five, forty,” said Pietro.

“What’s his last name?”

“Spageas or something like that,” said Pietro. “Something Greek.”

That narrowed it down to three-quarters of the residents of Astoria.

“You have an address or a phone number for him?”

Mira shook her head. Pietro just shrugged. Fisher rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the paper tacked to the bulletin board behind the counter. But he was standing too far away to see if Harry’s name was listed there.

“So, what would my friend have bought for $48.50?” asked Fisher.

Pietro thought it was probably a small grave bouquet, though the price didn’t quite work out right. Mira had no opinion.

“If you see Faud again,” said Fisher finally, “have him call me.” He slid a business card with a special sat phone number onto the counter, even though he was pretty sure it would be thrown into the garbage after he left.

He was wrong about that. Mira ripped it in half before he made it to the door.

Chapter 8

The first thing Howe did when he got back to the D.C. area was check into an inexpensive hotel and sleep.

When he woke up eight hours later, it was a little past four A.M. He decided he would call Blitz and leave a message on his voice mail telling him that he had changed his mind and that, if the job was still open at NADT, he wanted it.

Much to his surprise, Blitz picked up the phone himself.

“Dr. Blitz?”

“Who is this?”

“Bill Howe.”

“Colonel. How are you? Are you all right?” Blitz’s voice was tired and a little hoarse.

“Yes, sir. A little, uh, embarrassed.”

“Nonsense. We’re the ones who messed up: There should have been more people at the airport. Due to the circumstances in Korea -well, I don’t want to make excuses.”

“Is that job at NADT still open?”

Blitz didn’t answer.

It’s all right, Howe thought to himself. My own fault.

“It absolutely is,” said Blitz, his words practically gushing. “You’ve changed your mind?”

“If that’s acceptable.”

“Of course it is. That’s great. That’s great. Where are you?”

“Actually, I’m not far from Andrews, in a motel.”

“Can you come over to my office? There are a couple of hurdles-just little egos to gratify, really. But believe me, this is great. Really, really great.”

“I’ll be over as soon as I shave, sir.”