Peter arrived at Red Square ten minutes before the agreed upon time. It was close to dusk. The normally bustling plaza had settled down for the evening, but a few students still lingered here and there, clustering down by Drumheller Fountain to the south. Through the distant haze, Mount Rainier glowed salmon-orange.

At the upper edge of the square stood the Broken Obelisk, a fifty-foot rusted caricature of the Washington Monument, snapped off at its base, inverted, and balanced on the point of a squat pyramid. A group of students stood in its shadow, swiping their phones, chatting, loosely regarding a skateboarder as he failed miserably to ride the pyramid's base. Davila was nowhere to be seen.

Peter hurried across the square to the cathedral-like Suzzallo Library and pushed through the heavy bronze doors. The foyer greeted him with familiar odors of dust and wood varnish. High lancet windows cast the airy chamber in golden stripes and solemn shadows. Twin marble staircases curved up to the second level.

At the top, just to the left, an alcove window overlooked the Broken Obelisk. Peter waited for Davila to arrive. The students were still down there, but the skateboarder had given up and moved on to lesser conquests. In his place, two men in running pants and light jackets had stopped to stretch their calves.

As Peter waited, he found his gaze increasingly drawn from the window to the library's interior, across the landing to the Great Reading Room. He knew that place well, a lofty hall of books haunted by green reading lamps and echoing coughs. He had spent a summer of afternoons there reading the first Harry Potter novel, imagining himself surrounded by murmuring ghosts, enchanted lamps, and tomes of forbidden magic. And at the end of the day, Mom would fetch him, her arms loaded with record albums from the music library. At home, they would listen to the records and copy them onto cassette tapes—the same tapes Peter had left behind in his mother's Corolla, broken down along that desert stream in Oregon—the same music his father had left in his final voice message—his mother's favorite piece, "Solveig's Song" from Grieg's Peer Gynt Suite.

Peter dashed across the marble landing and veered through a low archway leading to the library's music stacks. Ranks of old cardboard record albums crowded the shelves. He ran his finger along their spines until he came to the letter G, for Grieg. He pulled them out three at a time, heedless as they fell to the floor. Then he had it, the Peer Gynt Suite with its cover of dark mountains brooding in the mist. Reaching inside, he withdrew the black vinyl record, clean and unscratched, untouched. Yet someone had tucked a sheet of folded yellow legal paper between the sleeve and the cardboard cover.

He fished it out and unfolded it. In the center of the page, someone had drawn a large stylized flower with four petals, captioned above and below with Viking runes. That someone, Peter knew, had to be his father.

In his mind, Peter translated the message:

Vindolanda Tablet III-245

British Museum London

Two additional runes occupied the flower's central disk, SS. "Solveig's Song." Or maybe seh-mee-nah see-nah-pees.

"Hello?" Nechama Davila stepped into the aisle. She was wearing jeans and a trim white blouse. A small handbag hung nestled beneath her left arm, its strap looped over her right shoulder. "Is everything all right?"

Peter hastily folded the paper and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he stooped to pick up the albums he had knocked to the floor. "How did you find me up here?"

"I saw you enter the library just as I arrived at the square. I wondered if something was wrong, so I followed you." She knelt stiffly and lent a hand. "I see you like Grieg."

When they had finished, she suggested they go outside as not to be overheard. Peter agreed, and exiting the library, they crossed the square to Drumheller Fountain, its broad, circular pool now ringed with people anticipating another dazzling sunset. The skateboarder from the Broken Obelisk was there, sitting in a posture of defeat, board across his lap, head bowed, his thinning black curls exposed.

At Peter's suggestion, they continued south to the old drawbridge spanning Montlake Cut, the narrow boat canal linking Lake Washington to the east with Union Bay to the west. Veering right, they passed through a narrow opening in a tall hedge. A concrete path snaked down through the grass of a narrow park, the boat canal to their left, the high windowless wall of a concrete building to their right. A dense line of cedar trees obscured its base.

Davila stepped off the path and led Peter under a low, broadleaf tree. Her eyes seemed to dart nervously about.

Peter spoke first. "Tell me what you know."

Her gaze alighted on Peter's face. "I don't know anything for sure."

"You said you knew who killed my dad."

She turned to watch something down by the water, her profile stern against the setting sun, noble and feminine. "Was it arson?"

"How did you know that?"

She faced him, her expression shadowed. "I didn't. Not until now. But I had my suspicions. Was his body burned beyond recognition? Did they have to rely on dental records?"

She knew something. Of that much Peter was sure. Still, he was not about to make the same mistake twice. "Just tell me who did it!"

"I'll tell you if you tell me what you know about the Ramallah Ossuary."

"I already told you. I don't know anything about your artifact, and neither did my dad."

"Did he happen to mention visiting Israel last month?"

Peter drew in a quick breath. His father had mentioned that trip, just before they donated blood together.

"Well?" said Davila.

"Listen, I'm not—"

She silenced him with a raised hand and nodded toward the water, whispering, "Do you see those two men down there? They were waiting at the Broken Obelisk when I arrived."

Peter had seen them too, the joggers.

The two joggers were splitting up now. Both were white. One was big and blond, his hair in a ponytail. He hurried along the canal and up toward the hedge. The other was sallow, thin, and balding. He strode up the path directly toward Peter and Davila, reaching into his jacket for something—a gun with a silencer attached to the barrel.

"Run!" said Davila, sprinting for the cover of the cedars as fast as her limp would allow.

Peter sprang after her just as something dense ripped through the air behind him, followed closely by a loud pop. Crashing through the cedars, he found himself in a narrow, litter-strewn corridor between the trees and the wall. Instantly, the concrete above his right shoulder exploded in a shower of biting flakes. He spun left and ran downhill, leaping over the garbage and fallen branches, stealing glances through the gaps in the trees. Tripping on an exposed root, he stumbled and fell sideways into the dense foliage.

There he lay in a hammock of branches, perfectly still, cedar fronds itching the back of his neck. He could hear everything at once, his pounding heart, his panting breath, the cars on Pacific Avenue, the cry of a seagull a mile away. And something else, much nearer: hard wheels rolling down the concrete path. A skateboard.

A twig snapped to his right.

He twisted, trying to stand, but instead found himself staring down the barrel of a gun, the assassin blurred somewhere behind it.

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

He thought to run, but his body refused even to twitch. A strange peace settled over him, a crushing calm, like in his dream.

Pray for us, now and in the hour of our deaths.

He closed his eyes, and something white flickered in his peripheral vision. Was it the muzzle flash? Or was it the bullet ripping through his brain, the random discharge of neurons? So why did the cedar fronds still itch the back of his neck?

His eyes snapped open just as Davila's white blouse came flying into view, left to right, her leg extended in a karate kick. The sole of her shoe struck the outside of the assassin's right knee, and it buckled inward with a sickening crunch.

Bellowing in agony, he crumpled to the ground, breaking his fall with his gun-hand. Davila jumped on the weapon and pinned it down with every muscle in her body. Peter lunged to help, but the assassin threw a lightning punch. It struck him above the right eye, spinning him halfway around. Stunned, Peter lashed out blindly, driving his elbow backward and up into the assassin's face. But it struck something else, soft and pliable.

Peter whipped around. The assassin was on his knees now, wide-eyed, gasping as he clutched his throat with both hands. Davila snatched up the gun and slammed the butt of its handle against the assassin's temple. He slumped to the ground, unconscious.

She hauled Peter to his feet and dragged him down along the wall. They had gone only a few yards when he slammed into her back. Just ten feet in front of them stood the second assassin, his beefy frame blocking the way, blond hair slicked back into a shiny helmet. He raised his gun, and Davila scrambled behind Peter, cowering, waving her right hand in the air.

The blond assassin tilted his head, puzzled it seemed by Davila's useless gesture. Or maybe it was the sound of skateboard wheels just on the other side of the trees.

Something hard and cold slithered up Peter's back, poking out beneath his left arm: the barrel of a gun, the gun Davila had taken from the first assassin.

The blond assassin firmed up his grip and aimed at the center of Peter's chest. There was no calm this time, no crushing peace, just hot desperation choking his lungs.

The pop of a silenced pistol made Peter flinch. He looked down and saw blood on the front of his shirt. He fell to his knees, frantically patting his chest for the entry wound. But there was none.

The blond assassin lowered his weapon, and it slipped from his fingers, thudding on the ground. He teetered, eyes dull and sleepy. Then he began to collapse, joint by joint, folding down like an accordion until he lay flat on his back, legs pressed beneath him into a letter M. A vermilion stain spread through the fabric of his jacket.

Peter scrambled to his feet and staggered back against the wall.

Davila kicked the blond assassin's gun out of reach and gaped at the weapon in her own hand. Then she untucked her blouse, wiped her prints from the gun, and stashed it in the trees.

She took Peter by the arm. "Let's go!" They stumbled along the wall, pausing at each gap in the trees before moving on. Reaching the corner of the building, Peter took out his cell phone, hands shaking so badly he could hardly unlock it.

Davila ripped it from his hands and powered it off. "Don't be stupid! Our phones are being monitored. How else do you think those men knew we would be at the Broken Obelisk?"

God, she was right.

She handed back his phone along with a wad of tissues from her handbag. She glanced at his forehead. "You're bleeding."

Blood was dripping from his right eyebrow. He pressed the wad of tissues to the wound and got down on his knees, already feeling faint.

"Are you all right?" said Davila.

He held up his hand. "Just give me a second."

Davila scanned their surroundings, head on a swivel. "We need to move."

The faintness was already passing. "I think there's a police station nearby. We can walk to it."

"No!"

"Why the hell not?"

"I'll explain later, not here. We need to find somewhere safe, somewhere private."

Peter knew just the place. But could he trust Davila? She did not want to hurt him; of that Peter was certain. In fact, she had just saved his life.

He got to his feet, bloody tissue pressed to his brow. "OK. Follow me."

Six blocks north, in the heart of the University District, they turned down an alley and approached the third stoop on the right. The bleeding had stopped. Peter thumped on the door, and when no one answered, he knelt and sifted through the empty flowerpot for Anna's spare key. Just as his fingers touched the cool metal, he found himself staring at her mismatched socks in the open doorway.

"Peter?" said Anna.

He let go of the key, brushed the dirt from his hands, and stood. "I thought you were going to the hospital."

"Oh my God. What happened to you?"

"We'll explain inside."

They filed in, and Anna bolted the door behind them, eyes on Davila.

Davila stationed herself by the front window, while Anna took Peter to the kitchen. Sitting at the table, Peter explained what had happened while she wiped the blood from his face with a damp rag.

"And you didn't call the police?" she said.

"No."

She worked a stubborn spot on his chin. "Why not?"

"Our phones are being monitored."

Anna's hazel eyes narrowed, and she craned her neck to check on Davila. "You know I've seen her before. Remember that woman I told you about, the one with your dad at the charity event?"

"That's her?"

She nodded.

Peter got up and strode into the living room.

Davila now sat on the couch, handbag in her lap.

"What the hell was going on between you and my dad?" said Peter.

Davila looked up, her black eyes startled. "Excuse me?"

"You met him at a charity event. My friend saw you together."

"I did meet him, once, yes."

Peter recalled what the Medical Examiner had said, that whoever killed his father had used military-grade incendiary devices. And Davila had military training. Or at least she knew how to use a gun. "You were in his truck. You were at the house!"

"I most certainly was not."

He shoved his hand into his jeans pocket, digging past the bloody tissues to the pendant earring he had found in the ashtray of his father's silver pickup truck. He pulled it out and dangled it by the hook so she could see. "Then whose is this?"

She sprang to her feet, spilling her handbag. Leaning close, she examined the earring, mouth agape. Then stumbling back, she sat heavily on the couch. "Where did you find that?"

"You left it in my dad's truck."

She shook her head. "No. God, no! He's here."

Anna entered the living room. "I just called 911," she said, looking up from her phone. "What's going on?"

Davila gathered the contents of her spilled handbag and rushed to the door.

"Hey! Where the hell do you think you're going?" said Peter.

Davila released the deadbolt and turned the knob.

Anna grabbed Peter's arm. "No. Let her go!"

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