“Besides,” I add, “it’s hardly in your father’s best interest to go around executing young lovers in the age of social media networking. Can you imagine what people would say about Qalif on Twitter if they beheaded you, Rashid, and stoned you to death, Ameera?” I shake my head. “Trust me, your father will back off when blogs like the Express get hold of this.”

“Miss Wells,” Rashid says as I open the office door. “I really don’t think my father is the type of man who cares what anyone says on Twitter.”

“Tell that to the guy who used to govern Egypt.”

I stick my head out the door and into the main office. Both of the prince’s bodyguards tense when they notice me. I’m surprised to see that Dave Fernandez is sitting beside Sarah’s desk, engrossed in conversation with her.

“Oh,” I say. “Hey, Dave. It’s me, Heather Wells.”

“Hello, Heather.” He climbs to his feet, cane in hand, smiling broadly. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by. Lisa let me know that the room won’t be available for a while, but I like Fischer Hall so much, I can’t seem to stay away.”

He likes Fischer Hall so much. Right. And his increasingly frequent visits have nothing to do with Sarah, whom I notice surreptitiously checking her reflection in a pocket mirror she keeps in a desk drawer, which is sweet, given that Dave is blind. It’s funny how hard it is to break our old habits.

Like failing to see what’s staring us straight in our faces, even if we possess 20/20 vision.

“No problem, Dave” I say. “Visit Fischer Hall all you want.”

“Hey, guys,” I say to Hamad and Habib, who’ve both come to crowd around the door. “The prince and Ameera are ready to tell the State Department the truth about—” I wink broadly at both bodyguards. “You know. Sarah, can you call Special Agent Lancaster in the surveillance room down the hall? I think he’s going to be the best person to handle this.”

“Sure, Heather,” Sarah says, and picks up her office phone to dial the extension.

Both bodyguards look shocked.

“Wait,” Hamad says, flinging a hand toward Sarah to stop her. “Do not make this call!”

“Uh.” Sarah stares at him blankly. “I already have them on the line—”

Hamad rushes forward, snatches the handset from her, then slams it back down onto the receiver with enough violence that I’m certain I hear plastic crack.

“How dare you?” Hamad seethes at me. Then he pushes me aside—not hard enough to cause me to fall down, since, as Hal mentioned, my center of gravity is quite low—and rushes toward Lisa’s office door, behind which the prince and Ameera are still huddled.

“Your Highness?” Hamad asks. “Are you all right?”

“Of course we’re all right,” I hear Rashid say. “Thank you, Hamad. Do you think you could find some water, though, for Ameera? She’s feeling a bit under the weather.”

“I’ll get it,” Dave volunteers. He walks unerringly in the direction of the office watercooler, finds it by whacking it with the tip of his cane until it makes a telltale bubbling sound, leans down to fill a paper cup with cool water, then brings it back an instant later. “Will this do?”

Habib looks at him in astonishment.

“It will do very nicely,” he says. “Thank you, sir.” Then he takes the water into Lisa’s office, where Hamad and Rashid are consulting in hushed voices.

Sarah stares up at Dave worshipfully. “We have work-study-student office hours available this semester, don’t we, Heather?” she asks. “To help out processing service requests and stuff. Maybe we could hire Dave to fill some of them.”

“Maybe.” I roll my eyes. It’s okay, because neither of them notices. One is too busy staring at the other, and the other can’t see.

“Did someone from this office just call me? Is something wrong?”

Special Agent Lancaster is standing in the doorway to the outer office, panting a little. He’s clearly run from the conference room, where the surveillance cameras have been set up. He’s got his firearm in one hand, and a half-eaten jelly donut in the other. He’s also forgotten his suit jacket, his tie, and the fact that his shirt is untucked and that he’s got a paper napkin pressed into his shirt collar to keep errant jelly donut guts from getting on the front of his pure-white shirt.

“Yes,” I say. “We did just call you. But no, nothing’s wrong, so you can put that away.”

I point at the gun, which Lancaster seems for the first time to notice he’s holding. He looks embarrassed, stuffs the jelly donut in his mouth, and holsters the gun, then begins tucking in his shirt.

“The prince has something he wants to tell you.” I point at the half-open door to Lisa’s office. “It’s pretty big news, so you might want to call for reinforcements.”

Lancaster nods, then reaches for his cell phone, dialing one-handed while ripping the paper napkin from his collar. “It’s not about the girl, is it?” he asks with his mouth full.

“The dead one? No,” I say. “But there is a girl involved.”

He looks up, sharply. “The British one?”

It’s my turn to nod. “I thought you guys might have noticed her.”

“She turns up a lot on the monitors. What about her?”

“You’ll never guess, so I won’t hold you in suspense. They’re married.”

He utters a curse word that blisters even my hardened ears.

“Wow,” I say. “I’ll be sure to pass on your congratulations to the happy couple.”

“Sorry,” he says, and lowers his head to his phone again. “This has to be why the other girl—the RA—was murdered. Why the reporter was attacked too. The RA must have found out those two were married, and was going to leak the story.”

“Maybe,” I say noncommittally. “She was going to leak something, but we can’t know for sure it was that, can we? Not until we find her phone. And her murderer too, of course. How did you know Jasmine was murdered? That hasn’t been released to the public.”

He gives me a sarcastic look. “I work for the government, Ms. Wells. Besides, I’ve been talking to that friend of yours, Eva.” He’d pronounced it the way Eva does, the Russian way, without the long E, so I know that, though his tone is dismissive, the dismissiveness is feigned—they know each other well . . . especially since the skin around his neckline, no longer hidden by the napkin, is turning pink. “We’ve chatted a couple of times. Strictly work-related, of course.”