The yellow marble edifice sat just north of Dupont Circle, on the corner where Florida Avenue crossed Connecticut. That intersection was surrounded by triangular and trapezoidal blocks formed by streets crossing at awkward and bizarre angles. Parking was even more difficult for a man whose head was pounding due to a vicious hangover. Still, walking toward the stone monolithic that housed the Russia House, Hannibal considered the conversation that had led him there to be even more challenging. He had made the call from his office, with Ivanovich looking on. “Well, good morning,” Raisa Petrova had said. “You are my very first caller of the day. And who might you be?” “It’s Hannibal Jones, Mrs. Petrova.” “Oh.” Her voice dropped a full octave. “Well, have you called to apologize?” “Excuse me?” “I thought maybe you had come to your senses. Have you finished cross-examining my son-in-law?” “Ma’am, I spoke to Mr. Gana and we are not in conflict over anything,”
