2Franklin Botts had no answers. “We don’t know why. We don’t know who. And we don’t know what your father was talking about.” A State Department security officer, Frank’s eyes were the color of chocolate syrup and he usually spoke in a matching liquid tone. Tonight, his voice was brittle. “And you, Kathryn Collins, are not going anywhere until I get a handle on this.”
The cold, formal Kathryn instead of the friendlier Casey. Letting me know his verdict was not subject to appeal.
I tried, anyway. “I have a job to do in Berlin,” I said again.
Frank shook his head. He was a threat assessment expert in the Bureau of Diplomatic Security and I’d been on his caseload for the past year. As required, I’d phoned him from the airport cop shop to report the attack. He arrived forty minutes later an
