Washington DC; 31 March

Sean Donahue balanced the phone on his shoulder so he could finish addressing the two identical pink envelopes on his desk. One was going to Callie Donahue, care of the M.I.T. dorms, and the other to Corrie Donahue at Harvard.

“I know there’s a penalty for early withdrawal,” he told the customer service representative, “but I need to—” He pursed his lips as she recited the same script as the man he had spoken to yesterday.

“I can’t talk to the Human Resources department at work because I don’t work there anymore. If I still worked there, I wouldn’t need the money.”

The rapid clicking of a keyboard told him the befuddled rep was waiting for her computer to tell her what to do next. The aluminum blinds over his desk clattered as he parted them to peek through. The cold, damp gloom of February wouldn’t let go, even though it was almost April. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the Sun. On the street, people with collars pulled up walked briskly, too cold for even polite nods.

Done with the envelopes, Sean turned his attention to the two identical birthday cards on his desk. He scribbled “To the best daughter ever, Love, Dad” on each, put checks ($100 each) in the cards and slid each card into an envelope.

The woman on the phone needed to consult a supervisor and promised she would call him back first thing tomorrow morning. He thanked her and hunted in his beat-up wooden desk for stamps. A present from his parents for graduation that had followed him to every job since journalism school, it was now indecorously crammed into the corner of his bedroom, piled high with papers and books. A cheap folding card table handled the overflow.

When he’d moved in three years ago, he expected to be there only a few months. The only picture in the apartment was a snapshot of his twin girls in high school graduation caps and gowns. He was on their left, smiling and proud. Whomever had been on their right had been surgically removed by the precise strokes of an x-acto knife.

The only other decoration hung on the wall over his desk. The Post had framed his Pulitzer Prize medal, along with the profile of him from the Sunday Magazine. He hated the story, particularly the part about his ‘wiry frame, intense, shark-like blue eyes and leonine mane.’

“What would you write?” the magazine editor asked when Sean complained.

“Average height (5’9”), average weight (190 lbs), blue eyes, brown hair.”

The matronly woman rolled her eyes. “Why don’t we just photocopy your driver’s license.” She looked at him over the top of her glasses. “This, Sean, is why they don’t let you write features.” His leonine mane stayed in the story, but he had his revenge when he got a feature into her magazine a few years later and refused to use any adjectives.

He checked his watch again, then ducked into the bathroom. Even at fifty-seven, Sean had the same nervous energy of the man in the profile from seventeen years ago. The leonine mane was thinner, but still mostly brown.

The stubble, however, was another matter. There wasn’t much, but what was there was disconcertingly grey, so he shaved. Done shaving, he pulled on a blue dress shirt to match his navy slacks and randomly chose a tie from his collection of two. He grabbed three envelopes from his desk, and headed out, tying his tie in a double Windsor knot on the way down the stairs to L Street. From the apartment entryway, he turned right and entered Murphy’s Pub, an Irish bar complete with obligatory neon shamrock sign.

Murphy’s was sparsely occupied, even for a weeknight. The crowd was divided between tourists and steadfastly loyal locals who didn’t care the food was pedestrian and the lighting was kept dim to hide that the décor hadn’t been updated since the Carter administration. The walls were covered with clever signs and free knickknacks from the liquor distributor. Sean’s favorite was the plaque behind the bar that read “If you’re drinking to forget, we ask that you pay in advance.”

At the end of the bar, an old-timer with a snow-white beard sat on a barstool and argued animatedly with a six-foot tall, gangly thirty-something Latino in tattoos and a blue Mohawk.

“I don’t care how good the Nats do during the season,” the old man said with a heavy Irish accent, “they’ll choke in the playoffs. They always do.”

Sean leaned up against the other end of the mahogany bar. “Ya got a minute, Murph?”

The Mohawked man broke off the conversation and strode over. Sean held out an envelope on which he’d written in block letters: DONAHUE – APRIL – RENT, but pulled it back before Murphy could take it.

“Any chance you could hold onto this for a few days?”

“I wish I could, man,” Murphy said, with the slight lilt of a man who learned to speak Spanish and English at the same time. “Ladies’ room flooded last night. Again. Between fixing the pipes and the water damage…”

“Two days. I gotta break into my 401K and the geniuses overseeing it can’t figure out how to give me my own money.”

Murphy frowned, but took the envelope and tucked it under the register drawer. “They charge fees and penalties and stuff to take money out early, you know.” He took the two pink envelopes from Sean and put them with tomorrow’s outgoing mail.

“I’m good for it if my new article on the IMF gets two thousand clicks in the next day.”

“Well, I can do a thousand myself if business stays this slow.” Murphy curled his lip in distaste. “I feel like I need to shower every time I look at the Brabble website.”

“Brabble’s temporary.”

“You been saying that, what? Nine months now?”

“Ten and a half.” He checked his watch. “Longer if I don’t get moving.”

“Two days,” Murphey said, but Sean was already out the door.

#

Sean walked to Embassy Row, where the Residence of the Ambassador of the Bolivarian Republic of Venezuela nestled into the forty-five-degree angle formed by the intersection of California Street and Massachusetts Avenue. The Embassy itself was in a small, unimpressive red-brick block of a building in Georgetown that was not conducive to entertaining.

As Sean approached the white, 1930’s-era compound, the gate on one side of the semi-circular driveway slid open in anticipation of an approaching black Town Car. Sean saw the government tags and quickened his pace so he’d get to the front steps just about the time the car door opened.

Gabriela Cortez, the Assistant Secretary of State for Western Hemisphere Affairs, was a barely five-foot-tall Latina with the curves that come from working breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Her perfectly tailored grey pantsuit was accented with a colorful Mexican scarf and large earrings that peaked out from under a short bob. Just past forty, Gabriela was a career diplomat with a ready smile and an easy-going manner. Both disappeared when she saw Sean.

“Well, Madame Assistant Secretary, how are affairs in the Western Hemisphere?” She closed her eyes a moment, wishing for him to disappear.

It didn’t work. He was still talking, and he’d expertly blocked her path to the door. “I left you three messages about—”

“Emilio Zacarías, yes. I don’t have anything new.”

“It must’ve been quite a shock. I understand you were close?”

She exhaled through clenched teeth. “We joined the diplomatic corps at the same time. And yes, it was quite a shock.” Sean moved to allow a couple to pass. Gabriela took advantage of the opening and started up the stairs.

“His widow would like to know when you’re going to return his body so she can bury it.” Gabriela stopped on the third step, putting her eye-to-eye with him.

“I didn’t think even you would stoop to harassing grieving widows? Leave the poor—”

“She called me,” Sean said. “They’re Orthodox Jews. Bodies are supposed to be buried within three days and—”

“I know. That’s the only reason I’m here. To talk with Rivera and see if we can expedite their releasing his body.”

“Wouldn’t you need to submit the paperwork to the Venezuelan government first?”

Her glare gave Sean a sense of satisfaction. “We have submitted the paperwork. They lost it.”

Sean shook his head as if she’d just offered him a bridge in Brooklyn.

“Look.” She leaned in close, talking through clenched teeth. “I had to put up with your shit when you were at the Post because you were at the Post. You’re not at the Post anymore. Keep it up and I’ll make sure you don’t get so much as the time of day from anyone at State for as long as I’m there.” She spun around, the fringes of her scarf chasing after her.

Sean watched her enter the residence.

“That smile scares me.” Tanya Holmes, a Howard grad with a Columbia J-school Masters (and a former colleague from the Post) joined him. “What are you up to?” She wore a fitted tangerine sheath that popped against her flawless ebony skin and matching heels. Tanya was usually not only the smartest person in the room, she was the best dressed. “Please tell me you aren’t still trying to make Ambassador Zacarías’ death—”

“He wasn’t an Ambassador. He was a Charge d’Affaires.”

“No one besides you and I care about the difference. He had a heart attack. It happens.”

“The guy was a fitness nut. Forty-seven. No health problems, no heart issues, not even high cholesterol. And he just drops dead?”

They picked up their nametags and Tanya pulled Sean to one side. She lowered her voice slightly given where she was. “Venezuela is imploding. There’s either going to be a coup or a civil war. That’s the story.”

Sean nodded. She was right.

She looked at him, shaking her head. “So why are you wasting your time on Zacarías?”

“Because I don’t have an editor, nine researchers, a half-dozen stringers and an expense account like you do, okay?”

Tanya had realized her misstep after the part about the nine researchers, but she was still taken aback by the bitterness in Sean’s voice. “I’m sorry. I was just trying—”

Sean walked off to join the crowd of people waiting to get past the reception line and to the open bar.