Lisbeth hadn't eaten today; her appetite had gone missing the past few days. Sleeping proved difficult too. She was on the verge of tears again. She had sobbed in the ladies' room until her eyes were puffy and red. Enough crying, she gritted her teeth. I could do with a couple of espresso martinis.

Instead of heading home, she ordered a destination change to the AI-Nav system of her PAV. The craft veered from the flight path over the Potomac toward the F Street corridor famous for its lively restaurants and bars.

The Red Parrot was her favorite: hip pulsar lounge music, ultra-chic decor, haute cuisine, and packed with beautiful does and bucks showing off their antlers and furs. But it was all fake, all show and bluster. Real power didn't need approval. Real power preferred the shadows and privacy and killed with a word. She was tired of it all, sick to her stomach.

Lisbeth walked through the front door. The maître d' recognized her, took her coat and whisked her to a corner table. For one? She declined the table. Tonight, she wanted the bar. And people.

The maître d' made sure she had a seat, making a hole in the three-deep bar. Lisbeth squeezed in between two handsome men in well-cut suits. They noticed her and smiled.

More masculine bullshit, God help me.

Laughter and inane chatter began to grate on her.

All she could think of was the meeting with Lockheart, Balkan and Oliver, etched deep in her memory. She despised them and herself for being part of the conspiracy. Her hands were soaked red too.

A cold rage burned through her. Hate for Lockheart. Venom for Balkan and Oliver. They had corrupted her soul with Harry's murder -- and how many others? She had witnessed unspeakable things behind the walls but was sworn to secrecy on pain of imprisonment -- or worse. They made her culpable, an accessory to high crimes and corruption she'd sworn against when she first took federal office.

This happened under my nose -- because I'm a coward.

She caught Dick, the bartender's attention.

"Espresso martini!"

The panacea would help her forget and forgive herself, at least until she was sober.

Dick poured the sumptuous mix of vodka, coffee liqueur, and espresso into a generous martini glass to the brim.

She eyed the indulgent creamy liquid, placed her lips on the glass, and sipped with her eyes closed. When she opened them, she found the two men, one on each side, watching her.

"You really enjoy it." They flashed their bright smiles. They offered her their best come-ons and wittiest remarks. It was a game well-rehearsed. And for a second, she contemplated dropping the safety net for the night and living dangerously. Perhaps a sweaty screwing was what she needed with a stranger, or two. What does it matter if she was already damned? For an instant, she was a woman again with unfilled desires, then reality reminded her who she truly was -- a captive of her position. She was a victim, like the little people here.

"Listen," Lisbeth told them. "I'm not interested." She returned to her drink and swallowed a generous gulp to restore the buzz and push the bitter bile away.

"Aw, not even for poor Ian?"

The name jolted her out of her skin.

She felt a hot breath on her neck -- and jerked upright, fear pounding in her chest. Lisbeth almost screamed for help.

She twisted around. There was no one in arm's reach. The suitors had moved yards away. Couldn't be them. She was going crazy.

Desperate, Lisbeth got up to leave. She needed to clear her mind and cold air would do it -- she knew just the place. She downed the martini in three quick gulps and pay-swiped her fee with the standard tip. She nudged bar-goers out of her way and made for the exit past the maître d' who called after her. She had left her coat behind.

The Wharves of Alexandria was a popular tourist area in the DMV, known for its art galleries and the ample cobblestone buildings that hearkened to the days of it being a colonial river port. It was also Ian's favorite place to rendezvous with her, their trysts made in salacious secret. Those heart-thumping memories once dear had turned into bitter bile she was desperate to eject. Perhaps she could exorcise his phantom and her guilt with this final cathartic visit to their old haunt, though she had no funeral lei to say farewell. Forgive me, Ian.

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Farther out, the extended boardwalk abutted ferries and water taxis that connected Old Town and the National Mall in DC. A no-hassle way to see the river, the Potomac Ferry offered a one-hour cruise of the historic sites for cheap. A boat ride seemed perfect, refreshing, and full of memories of their relationship. Perhaps she could close it once and for all. A river burial.

The last ferry to depart the Wharf was at 8:45 PM.

At this hour, Lisbeth was one of the few to board.

The November chill came off the water. She cursed herself. In her rush to leave, she had forgotten her coat. So be it. If she caught her death tonight, it'd be a fitting end for a coward. She moved into the ferry's enclosed interior out of the chilly draft. She sat alone, immersed in a bubble of guardedness.

The gangplank removed, sounds of boat horns echoed across the expanse of darkness as the shore slipped away. An occasional spray caught by deck light leaped up, sparkled and died. Twinkles of LED bulbs from river piers passed by as the boat powered north upriver. It was a simple joy she yearned, no technology, no media, no people to accost her.

Not true. Dressed in a long coat with collars turned up, an older man with graying hair and an aquiline nose moved from the opposite end toward her.

"Where does this boat dock?" he asked, looking unwell, his skin taking on an ashen hue under the ceiling light.

"At Ohio & West Basin Drive near the old FDR Memorial," Lisbeth said.

"Good, then we have half an hour of uninterrupted peace." The man sat down on the bench next to her.

She moved away. He matched her.

"Do you mind?"

"No, I don't."

"Get away from me before I scream."

"Don't be nervous," the man said, appearing gentle. "I'm a friend."

"You're no friend."

The man persisted, "Don't you want to know what really happened to Ian? How he died?"

"You people killed him. Assassins!" Lisbeth spat, trembling from fear and the cold.

The man took off his trench coat and offered it to her. "Here, you're freezing."

She flung it away. "Balkan sent you here to kill me, so get on with it."

"You got it all wrong, I want you alive, and Ian too -- but I was too late."

"Who do you work for? If not Balkan, Charles Oliver? One or the other." Lisbeth raised her voice. "I'm the Undersec -- "

"Shh, not too loud," the stranger whispered, offering her his coat a second time. "All shall be revealed. Take it, please, before you freeze to death."

With her teeth chattering, she caved in and took it. "Thank you." Reluctantly, Lisbeth found herself calmed by him. There was a gentleness about this man; he was grayish but knowing, like a kind uncle.

"We just talk, is that okay?"

"You got ten seconds," Lisbeth said, her hands frozen, stuffed in the pockets.

The man began, "Ian came to see me a few days before he was murdered."

"Why?"

"He wanted to trade Carnivora for a future -- with you."

"Oh, Ian." Lisbeth shook her head, her eyes stinging. "He may be an academic but he's naive. I told him to get out of town and go back to Dallas where he's safe."

"We were going to offer him fief membership and set him up, that was the plan."

"Dumb plan, it was never going to work. That probably got him killed instead."

"You know the truth -- your boss killed him."

She paused, more curious now. "I thought you were one of them. Which fief do you work for?"

"Shouldn't we exchange names first as friends?"

"I don't want to know who you are, mister." Lisbeth shrugged, not taking his hand.

"I'm Harry," he said taking his hand back. "And I'm an Affiliate of Midland. We have an interest to see the PIP change with this year's Conclave."

"What's that have to do with me?"

"Ian was our friend. You could be our friend too . . . Help us change the PIP." Harry repeated his familiar offer. "As you know, Caracas was illegal -- using federal assets to aid the interest of the PIP. That violates the International Paramountcy Accord, and it will come out, I assure you. But you can get ahead of the curve."

"You're asking me to commit treason."

"Treason is a nation's term. That no longer applies. Paramountcies are nations now." Harry paused to study her. "A wrong minus a wrong equals a right. Ian believed in it."

"And he died for it."

"Ian had conviction and passion," Harry said. "That's why you loved him."

She eyed Harry with suppressed fury.

"Yes, Balkan knew about you two, not just us," Harry said gently.

"Shut up." She quivered, her emotion wrangled and twisted. "You used him."

"We offered him a way out. The same offer is on the table for you." He paused. "If revenge is what you want, there is no sweeter dish than outliving an enemy."

Lisbeth sighed, gazing at a patch of dark water where a few lights crossed the horizon. The ferry was approaching a well-lit Key Bridge busy with traffic.

Harry resumed, "Ian was going to defect, so they killed him, along with many others. Don't let that go unanswered."

"You think I am without conscience?" She huffed and gnashed. "It gnaws at me every minute of the day."

"Then do the right thing. Help us. Help yourself."

Lisbeth stared at the illuminated monuments coming into view, lost in some far-away thought. "I joined the federal service to make a difference."

He succored to her. "Not while a fief in power can do whatever it wants, reminiscent of the old ways. This has to stop."

"The King is dead. Long live the King." Lisbeth looked into the dark as her shoulders slumped. "You own us now. Slavery and feudalism never went away, they came back in different clothes."

"You're wrong, Ms. Hunt." He cajoled. "Let us help. Ask and you shall receive."

"You think I'm your ally? I don't want your money." Lisbeth exuded a righteous contempt. "Ian died because of money."

"And pride."

She glared at him, biting her lower lip to keep her from exploding. They sat in silence for a while.

"So what do you want from me?" Lisbeth asked at last. "I won't go public if that's what you have in mind."

"Of course not. Can I contact you from time to time -- for information?"

"What sort of information? I'm no dollar-store."

"Only critical life-saving stuff. Trust me."

Lisbeth scoffed and digested what he meant, her silence a loud acceptance.

"I think we've arrived," Harry said and got up. "Keep the coat, you're chilled to the bone."

She handed the trench back to him. "Not on your life. I don't want your stench on me."