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“You’re the one who found the computer query from the Questura in Florence to the Lecter VICAP file,” Krendler said. “The query came several days prior to the Pazzi murder. We don’t know when you discovered it. Why else would the Questura in Florence be asking about Lecter?”

“What possible reason would I have to warn him? Director Noonan, why is this a matter for the IG? I’m prepared to take a polygraph examination anytime. Wheel it in here.”

“The Italians registered a diplomatic protest over the attempted warning of a known felon in their country,” Noonan said. He indicated the red-haired man beside him. “This is Mr. Montenegro from the Italian Embassy.”

“Good morning, sir. And the Italians found out how?” Starling said. “Not from Langley.”

“The diplomatic beef puts the ball in our court,” Krendler said before Montenegro could open his mouth. “We want this cleaned up to the satisfaction of the Italian authorities, and to my satisfaction and that of the IG, and we want it PDQ. It’s better for everybody if we look at all the facts together. What is it with you and Dr. Lecter, Ms. Starling?”

“I interrogated Dr. Lecter several times on the orders of Section Chief Crawford. Since Dr. Lecter’s escape I’ve had two letters from him in seven years. You have both of them,” Starling said.

“Actually, we have more,” Krendler said. “We got this yesterday. What else you might have received, we don’t know.” He reached behind him to get a cardboard box, much stamped and much battered by the mails.

Krendler pretended to enjoy the fragrances coming from the box. He indicated the shipping label with his finger, not bothering to show Starling. “Addressed to you at your home in Arlington, Special Agent Starling. Mr. Montenegro, would you tell us what these items are?”

The Italian diplomat poked through the tissue-wrapped items, his cufflinks winking.

“Yes, this are lotions, sapone di mandorle, the famous almond soap of Santa Maria Novella in Florence, from the Farmacia there, and some perfumes. The sort of thing people are giving when they felt in love.”

“These have been scanned for toxins and irritants, right, Clint?” Noonan asked Starling’s former supervisor.

Pearsall looked ashamed. “Yes,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with them.”

“A gift of love,” Krendler said with some satisfaction. “Now we have the mash note.” He unfolded the sheet of parchment from the box and held it up, revealing the tabloid picture of Starling’s face with the winged body of a lioness. He turned the sheet to read Dr. Lecter’s copperplate script: “Did you ever think, Clarice, why the Philistines don’t understand you? It’s because you’re the answer to Samson’s riddle: You are the honey in the lion.”

“Il miele dentro la leonessa, that’s nice,” Montenegro said, filing it away for his own use at a later time.

“It’s what?” Krendler said.

The Italian waved the question away, seeing that Krendler would never hear the music in Dr. Lecter’s metaphor, nor feel its tactile evocations anywhere else.

“The Inspector General wants to take it from here, because of the international ramifications,” Krendler said. “Which way it will go, administrative charges or criminal, depends on what we find out in our ongoing probe. If it goes criminal, Special Agent Starling, it’ll be turned over to the Public Integrity Section of the Justice Department, and PIS will take it to trial. You’ll be informed in plenty of time to prepare. Director Noonan …”

Noonan took a deep breath and swung the axe. “Clarice Starling, I’m placing you on administrative leave until such time as this matter is adjudicated. You will surrender weapons and FBI identification. Your access is revoked to all but public federal facilities. You will be escorted from the building. Please surrender your sidearms and ID now to Special Agent Pearsall. Come.”

Walking to the table, Starling saw the men for a second as bowling pins at a shooting contest. She could kill the four of them before one could clear his weapon. The moment passed. She took out her .45, looked steadily at Krendler as she dropped the clip into her hand, put the clip on the table and shucked the round out of the pistol’s chamber. Krendler caught it in the air and squeezed it until his knuckles turned white.

Badge and ID went next.

“You have a backup sidearm?” Krendler said. “And a shotgun?”

“Starling?” Noonan prompted.

“Locked in my car.”

“Other tactical equipment?”

“A helmet and a vest.”

“Mr. Marshal, you will retrieve those when you escort Miss Starling to her vehicle,” Krendler said. “Do you have an encryption cell phone?”

“Yes.”

Krendler raised his eyebrows to Noonan.

“Turn it in,” Noonan said.

“I want to say something, I think I’m entitled to that.”