Andrea Bancroft took a hurried sip of bottled water. She felt self-conscious, as if everyone were staring at her. As a glance around the room confirmed, everyone was staring at her. She was in the middle of her presentation on the proposed deal with MagnoCom, widely seen as an up-and-coming player in the cable and telecom industry. The report was the biggest responsibility the twenty-nine-year-old securities analyst had been given so far, and she had put a great deal of time into the research. This wasn’t just another backgrounder, after all; it was a deal in motion, with a tight deadline. She had dressed for the presentation, too, in her best Ann Taylor suit, with a blue-and-black plaid pattern that was bold without being forward.

So far, so good. Pete Brook, the chairman of Coventry Equity Group and her boss, was sending her approving nods from his seat in the back. People were interested in whether she had done good work, not in whether she was having a good-hair day. It was a thorough report she was delivering. A very thorough report, she had to admit. Her first few slides summarized the cash-flow situation, the various revenue streams and cost centers, the write-offs and capital expenditures, the fixed and variable expenses that the firm had incurred over the past five years.

Andrea Bancroft had been a junior analyst at Coventry Equity for two and a half years, a fugitive from grad school; to judge from Pete Brook’s expression, she was in for a promotion. The qualifier “junior” would be replaced with “senior,” and her salary could very well hit six figures before the year was over. That was a lot more than her fellow grad students were going to see in academe any time soon.

“It’s clear at a glance,” Andrea said, “that you’re looking an impressive ramp-up in revenue and in customer base.” A slide with the upward-sloped curve was projected onto a screen behind her.

Coventry Equity Group was, as Brook liked to put it, a matchmaker. Its investors had money; the markets had people who could put that money to good use. Undervalued opportunities were what they looked for, with a particular interest in PIPE opportunities—private investment in public equity, or situations where a hedge fund like theirs could acquire a bunch of common stock or equity-linked securities at a discount. Those typically involved distressed firms with a serious need for a fast cash infusion. MagnoCom had approached Coventry, and Coventry’s investment-relations manager was excited by the prospect. It seemed in surprisingly good shape: MagnoCom, as its CEO explained, needed the cash not to weather a bad patch but to take advantage of an acquisition opportunity.

“Up, up, up,” Andrea said. “You see that at a glance.”

Herbert Bradley, the plump-faced manager for new business, nodded with a look of pleasure. “Like I said, this ain’t no mail-order bride,” he said, looking around at his colleagues. “It’s a marriage made in heaven.”

Andrea clicked to the next side. “Except what you can see at a glance isn’t all there is to see. Start with this write-off list of so-called onetime expenses.” These were numbers that had been buried in a dozen different filings—but, when gathered together, the pattern was unmistakable and alarming. “Once you drill down, you find that this firm has a history of disguising equity-for-debt swaps.”

A voice from the rear of the conference room. “But why? Why would they need to?” asked Pete Brook, rubbing his nape with his left hand, as he did when he was agitated.

“Jesus,” Brook said. She could tell from his crestfallen expression that he got it. “They’re shamming, aren’t they?”

“Pretty much. The acquisition cost per household is killing them, because the service is so deeply discounted for new customers and nobody wants to renew at the higher rate. So what they’ve done is run two flattering figures up the flagpole: customer growth rates and revenue growth rate. Assumption is, we’re going to look at the big picture and see cause and effect. But the revenue is smoke and mirrors, ginned up by equity swaps, and by hiding the money they’re losing on growing the customer base through all these supposed onetime charges.”

“I can’t believe it,” Brook said, slapping his forehead.

“Believe it. That debt is a big bad wolf. They just put it in a dress and a bonnet.”

Pete Brook turned to Bradley. “And they had you saying, ‘What lovely big teeth you have, Grandma.’”

Bradley fixed Andrea Bancroft with a stern gaze. “You sure about this, Miss Bancroft?”

“Afraid so,” she said. “You know, I used to do history, right? So I figured the history of the company might shed some light on things. I looked way back, back before the DyneCom merger. Even then, the CEO had a habit of robbing Peter to pay Paul. New bottle, old wine. MagnoCom has a business plan from hell, but the financial engineers they hired are pretty brilliant, in a twisted way.”

“It would have all come out on the Form Eight-K,” Andrea said as she gathered her papers and started to walk back to her seat.

“Yeah, after the deal was inked,” Brook interjected. “Okay, ladies and germs, what have we learned today?” He looked around at the others in the room.

“Get Andrea to perform your due diligence,” one of the traders said with a snort.

“It’s easy to lose money in cable,” another one cracked.

“Give it up to Bangin’ Bancroft,” called out another would-be wit, this one a more senior analyst who hadn’t caught the flimflam in his first pass through the PIPE proposal.

As the meeting started to break up, Brook came over to her. “Solid work, Andrea,” he said. “More than solid. You’ve got a rare talent. You look at a stack of documents that looks completely in order, and you know when something’s off.”

“I didn’t know—”

“You sensed it. Then, even better, you worked your ass off to prove it. There was a lot of ditch-digging behind that presentation. I bet your spade banged against bedrock more than once. But you kept digging, because you knew you’d find something.” The tone was of assessment as much as commendation.

“Something like that,” Andrea admitted, tingling slightly.

“You’re the real deal, Andrea. I can always tell.”

As he turned to speak to one of the portfolio managers, one of the secretaries approached her, clearing her throat. “Miss Bancroft,” she said. “A call you might want to take.”

Andrea floated back to her desk, hydroplaning on relief and pride. She had kicked ass, just as Pete Brook said. His look of gratitude was genuine, and so was his praise afterward; there was no doubt about that.

“Andrea Bancroft,” she said into the handset.

“My name is Horace Linville,” said the man who called, needlessly. That much was on the call slip. “I’m an attorney with the Bancroft Foundation.”

All at once Andrea felt herself wilting. “And what can I do for you, Mr. Linville?” she said without warmth.

“Well…” The lawyer paused. “Mostly it’s about what we can do for you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not interested,” Andrea replied, almost testily.

“I don’t know if you’re aware that a cousin of yours, Ralph Bancroft, recently passed away,” Linville persisted.

“I wasn’t,” Andrea replied, her voice softening. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Ralph Bancroft? The name was only vaguely familiar.

“There’s a bequest,” he said. “Of a sort. Triggered by his death. You’d be the recipient.”

“He left me money?” The lawyer’s elliptical formulations were beginning to irritate her.

Linville paused. “The family trusts are quite intricate, as I’m sure you appreciate.” He paused again, and then lurched into an elaboration, as if aware that what he said might have been taken the wrong way. “Ralph Bancroft had been a member of the foundation trustees, and his passing leaves a vacancy. The charter specifies eligibility, and the percentage of members that must belong to the Bancroft family.”

“I don’t consider myself a Bancroft, really.”

“You’re a trained historian, no? You’ll want to be fully informed of the antecedent circumstances before you make any final decisions. But I’m afraid we’re on a very tight schedule here. I’d like to drop by and present these details to you formally and in person. Apologies for the short notice, but it’s an unusual situation, as you’ll see. I can come to your house at half-past six.”

“Fine,” Andrea said, her voice hollow. “That’s fine.”

His presence made her feel oddly self-conscious about her home, a place she had on a twelve-month rental, in a not-so-expensive neighborhood of a generally somewhat pricey town. Carlyle was one or two train stops too far from Manhattan on Metro North to make it a proper bedroom community, but some of its inhabitants did the commute. She had always taken some measure of pride in her Carlyle address. Now she thought about what her place must seem like to someone from the Bancroft Foundation. It must seem…small.

“Like I said, Mr. Linville, I don’t really consider myself a Bancroft.” She had seated herself on the sofa, at the other side of the coffee table.

“That’s not quite to the point. By the foundation’s guidelines and charter, a Bancroft is exactly what you are. And with Ralph Bancroft’s passing—with the departure of any member of the board—a series of eventualities are triggered. There’s a…disbursement that accompanies this responsibility. A bequest, if you like. That’s how it’s always been done at the foundation.”

“Let’s put history aside. I work in finance, as you know. We like things to be clear and specific. What’s the specific nature of the bequest?”

A slow blink. “Twelve million dollars. Is that specific enough?”

The words vanished like smoke rings in the wind. What had he said? “I’m not following.”

“With your authorization, I can wire those twelve million dollars into your account by the end of the banking day tomorrow.” He paused. “Does that make things clearer?” He removed a set of documents from his briefcase, arrayed them on the table.

Andrea Bancroft was dizzy, almost queasy. “What do I have to do?” she choked out.

“Serve as a trustee of one of the most admired charitable and philanthropic organizations in the world. The Bancroft Foundation.” Horace Linville let a moment of silence elapse yet again. “Not everyone would find this terribly onerous. Some might even regard it as an honor and a privilege.”

“I’m stunned,” she said finally. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I hope it’s not inappropriate for me to make a suggestion,” the lawyer replied. “Say yes.”

Washington, D.C.

Will Garrison ran a hand through his steel-gray hair; in repose, his basset eyes and jowly face might have seemed kindly. Belknap knew better. Anyone who had encountered the man did. There was an earth-science logic to it: The hardest rock was born of pressure over time.

“What the hell happened in Rome, Castor?”

“You got my report,” Belknap said.

“Don’t bullshit me,” the older man warned. He stood up and twisted closed the blinds that hung over the interior glass wall of his office. The room had the bolted-down look of a ship captain’s office: no loose articles in sight, everything squared away, secured. A tidal wave could have rocked the office and shifted nothing. “We’ve sunk God knows how much in resources and personnel into three separate Ansari ops. The directive was clear. We get inside, we see how it works, we follow the tentacles where they go.” A display of tea-colored teeth. “Except that wasn’t good enough for you, was it? Instant gratification takes too long, huh?”

“You’ve got brass ones, I’ll give you that.” Garrison returned to his chair. “Showing up here like this with that concerned expression on your face.”

“I’m not here for tea and cookies, okay?” Belknap replied testily. “Start talking sense.” Though he and Garrison had a reasonably functional working relationship, they had never clicked personally.

Garrison’s chair squeaked as he leaned back. “The regs—they must annoy the hell out of you. You’re like Gulliver and the little people are tying you down with dental floss, right?”

“Goddammit, Will—”

“From your perspective, the shop must be getting more tight-assed every year,” the aging intelligence officer went on. “The way you figured it, you were just serving justice, right? Instant, the way you take your coffee.”

Belknap learned forward. He could smell the Barbasol shaving cream Garrison used, a sharp menthol fragrance. “I hustled my ass over here because I thought I’d get some answers. What happened yesterday wasn’t in anybody’s goddamn playbook that I know of. Suggests another factor’s at work. Maybe you know something I haven’t been privy to.”

“You’re good,” Garrison said. “We could have you fluttered and see just how good.” Fluttered: subjected to a polygraph examination—to a lie detector.

“What the hell, Garrison?” Belknap felt his guts beginning to curdle.

Pretend solicitude barely masked a smirk as Garrison pressed on. “You’ve got to remember who you really are. The rest of us sure do. Times change. It can be a bitch to keep up. Think I don’t know that? These days, James Bond himself would find himself remanded to Alcoholics Anonymous, probably forced to join some program for sexual addiction, too. I’ve been around the block longer than you, so I remember. The spy game used to be the Wild West. Now it’s the Mild West. Used to be a sport for the jungle cats. Now Puss-in-Boots is running the goddamn show, am I right?”

“What are you talking about?” The turn in the conversation was making Belknap’s skin crawl.

“I’m just saying I can see where you’re coming from. After what happened, a lot of people would have lost it. Even someone without your history.”

“My history is just that. History.”

“Like the man says, there are no second acts in American life. No second acts, and no intermissions, either.” Garrison held a thick file a few feet above his desk and with a dramatic flourish let it drop. It made a smacking sound as it landed. “Do I need to cite chapter and verse? A temper is what they used to call what you’ve got. Now they call it a rage-management issue.”

“You’re talking about just a few episodes.”

“Yeah, and John Wilkes Booth only shot a man once. But it was a doozy.” Another tea-colored smile. “Remember a Bulgarian pisser named Drakulic? He still can’t sit right.”

“Eight girls under the age of twelve suffocated to death in his trailer because their families were a little short on the money he was demanding to smuggle them into the West. I saw those corpses. I saw the bloody scratches on the inside of the trailer from when those girls ran out of air. The fact that Drakulic is still sitting at all is a tribute to some goddamn supreme self-control.”

“He had tortured five of our informants to death, Garrison. Melted their faces with a goddamn acetylene torch. Did it personally.”

“We could have put pressure on him. He might have made a deal. He could have had usable intelligence.”

“Trust me.” A quick, wintry grin. “He didn’t.”

“That wasn’t your call to make.”

The field agent shrugged stonily. “You don’t actually know what happened to Calderone. All you have is your conjecture.”

“We could have done an inquest. Conducted an investigation. It was my decision to let sleeping dogs…die.”

Another shrug. “I made my decision. You made yours. What’s there to talk about?”

“What I’m saying is that there’s a pattern. I’ve let you off the hook several times. We all have. We’ve let things slide because you’ve got gifts we value. Like your buddy Jared always said, you’re the Hound. But now I’m thinking that we’ve made a mistake letting you out of the kennel. What happened in Rome might have felt right to you, but it was wrong. Very wrong.”

Belknap just stared at the seamed face of his superior officer. In the harsh light of the halogen desk lamp, Garrison’s cheeks looked quilted. “Start making sense, Will. What the hell are you trying to say?”

“You colored outside the lines for the last time,” said the aging manager, rumbling like a distant thunderstorm, “when you killed Khalil Ansari.”

“The foundation has an extremely impressive record,” Linville said after a while. “As a trustee you’ll share a responsibility to make sure it continues to in the future. If you think you’re prepared for it.”

“How does anybody prepare for something like this?”

“Being a Bancroft is a good start.” Linville looked at her over half-moon glasses and gave her a lipless smile.

“A Bancroft,” she echoed.

He held out the pen. He had not just come to explain; he had come for her signature. In triplicate. Say yes.

After he left, the signed document neatly tucked into his briefcase, Andrea found herself pacing, giddy yet apprehensive. She had gained an unimaginable prize, and yet felt weirdly bereft. There was logic to the illogic: Her life—the life that she had known, had struggled to shape—would change beyond recognition, and there was loss in that.

Her eyes darted around the living room again. She had gussied up the Ikea lounger by putting a nice Berber weave on it. It looked posh, even though she had picked it up for a song at a flea market. The coffee table from Pier 1 looked like it cost at least twice what she paid for it. The wicker furniture—well, you could find that sort of thing in expensive houses in Nantucket, no?

A few hours ago, it was a source of satisfaction that she earned a salary of eighty thousand dollars—and had hopes to hit six figures before long. And now? She couldn’t fathom the sum. Not in the small private world of Andrea Bancroft. A stray fact drifted into her mind: The entire population of Scotland was about five million. She could—one of the silly thoughts that flitted through her consciousness like flies—give a couple of boxes of raisins to every single inhabitant of Scotland.

She remembered freezing up when Linville placed the fountain pen in her hand. The long moments that elapsed before she inked her name to the documents. Why had it been so hard?

She continued to pace, numb, exhilarated, and strangely agitated. Why had she found it so hard to say yes? Linville’s words returned to her: A Bancroft…

The marriage to Reynolds Bancroft wasn’t just unhappy, it was something worse: It was embittering. Laura Parry was a small-town girl with big-town looks, but those looks never brought the happiness they promised. The young swell who had romanced her soured after their marriage, feeling obscurely trapped, even gulled, as if her pregnancy had been some sort of snare. He became petulant, cold, and then emotionally abusive. Their infant daughter he regarded as little more than a noisy inconvenience. He drank heavily, and Laura began to drink, too, at first in a futile effort to join with him, and then in an equally futile attempt to defend herself. Some fruit ripens on the vine, honey, she used to tell Andrea. Some fruit just shrivels up.

As a rule, though, she simply preferred not to discuss the subject. Before long, Andrea’s memories of her father became shrouded in fog. Reynolds, a first cousin of the family patriarch, might have been a bad seed, but when his kin closed ranks, Laura came to loathe the Bancroft clan as a whole.

It had always been a matter of loyalty to her mother to be a Bancroft who was not a Bancroft. Once in a while, in the public high school outside Hartford she attended, and, with greater frequency, in college, somebody would raise an eyebrow at Andrea’s surname and ask her whether she was “one of those Bancrofts.” She would always deny it. “Different,” she would say. “Completely different.” It felt like the truth, anyway, and it felt like betrayal to embrace the wealth that her mother had spurned. “Precious bane” was what her mother always called it, meaning the birthright of the Bancrofts. Meaning, well, the money. When she walked away from Reynolds, she walked away from a whole way life, from a world of luxury and indulgence. What would she think of Andrea’s decision? Those triplicate signatures? That yes?

Andrea shook her head, scolding herself. It wasn’t the same decision. Her mother had to escape a bad marriage, or lose her soul.

Maybe the fates were somehow making it up to her, giving back to one generation what was taken from another. Maybe it would help her find her soul.

Besides, though Reynolds Bancroft might have been a son of a bitch, the Bancroft Foundation itself was undoubtedly a very, very good thing. And what of the paterfamilias behind it, its strategist and chief: Wasn’t he a Bancroft, too? However much he fought the limelight, the facts were the facts. Paul Bancroft wasn’t just a great philanthropist; he was one of the great minds of postwar America—a onetime academic prodigy, a major moral theorist, a man who had truly turned principles into practices. A clan that had a Paul Bancroft among its number had ample reason for pride. If that was a way to be a Bancroft, well, she could only aspire to be worthy of it.

Andrea’s mind, and mood, cycled up and down. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror and her mind suddenly filled with the image of her mother’s wan, drawn face. Andrea’s last glimpse of her before the car accident.

Maybe this wasn’t a good time to be alone. She still felt raw from her recent breakup with Brent Farley. She ought to be celebrating, not dwelling on painful memories. Friends for dinner—that’s what the occasion required. She and her friends always talked about doing things spontaneously; for once, why not try it? She made a couple of phone calls, made a quick shopping trip, set the table for four. Très intime. The ghosts would be dispelled soon enough. It was only natural that she was having a hard time adjusting to the news. But—Christ—if this wasn’t a cause for celebration, what was?

Todd Belknap leaped from his seat. “Are you shitting me?”

“Please,” Garrison drawled. “How convenient that the mark dies just before you managed to get the surveillance devices online. So there’s no record of what really went down.”

“No, you weren’t thinking. You were blinded by rage.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“Our vices are always the flip sides of our virtues. At the butt-end of love and loyalty you find blind, destructive rage.” Garrison’s cold gray eyes probed Belknap like a speculum moving through his innards. “I don’t know how you heard or who leaked it to you, but you found out what happened to Jared. You figured Ansari was behind it. And you lost it.”

Belknap reacted as if he had been slapped. “What happened to Jared?”

“Like you don’t know?” Garrison’s voice dripped with scorn. “Your asshole buddy had just been kidnapped in Beirut. So you snuffed out the guy you took to be responsible. A rage reaction. Blew the whole operation as a result. Just your speed, too.”

“Jared was…?”

Pouchy gray eyes high-beamed Belknap. “You’re going to pretend you hadn’t known? You two were always connected like you had some invisible hookup between you. Two tin cans on a taut string, no matter where on the planet you were. Pollux and Castor—there’s a reason the ops boys always called you that. Twin heroes of ancient Rome.”

Belknap found himself speechless, paralyzed, encased in ice. He had to remind himself to breathe.

“Except, as I recall, only Pollux was immortal,” the burly manager went on. “Best you keep that in mind.” Now he tilted his head back. “And here’s something else to keep in mind. We don’t know that Jared’s abduction had anything to do with Ansari. Could have been any one of a dozen militant orgs operating in the Bekaa Valley region. Any of them could have mistaken him for the man he was playing. But rage doesn’t reflect, does it? You acted on impulse, and as a result you’ve put thousands of operational man-hours into jeopardy.”

Belknap struggled to contain himself. “Jared was closing in on the financiers of terror. He was working the buy-side.”

“And you were working the sell-side. Until you trashed the operation.” The veteran’s quilted cheeks formed a sneer.

“Are you deaf as well as dumb?” Belknap snapped. “I’m saying he was closing in when they did the smash-and-grab. That means something. You’re telling me you believe in coincidences? I never knew a spy who did.” He broke off. “Forget about me. We need to talk about Jared. About how to get him back. You can run all the inquests and assessments you want. All I’m saying is, hold off for another week.”

“So we can find out what else you can wreck? You don’t get it. You’re exactly what this organization can’t afford anymore. It needs to be about the work, not about you, but you’re always making it about your own dramas, aren’t you?”

A surge of disgust. “Listen to yourself, for Chrissakes—”

“No, you listen to me. Like I say, it’s a whole new era. We got the goddamn Kirk Commission shoving a gloved finger up our ass. The cost-benefit equation doesn’t run in your favor any longer. I can’t even begin to tot up the damage you did with your half-cocked Roman revenge drama. So here’s the deal. You’re on immediate administrative suspension. We’re going to start an inquest, following all the rules and regs. I suggest you give the internal assessors your complete cooperation. You play nice and we work out a severance. Mess with us and I’ll see you get what’s coming to you. That could mean charges, penalties, even jail. Everything’s going to be by the book.”

“What book? Kafka’s The Trial?”

“You’re out, Geronimo. For good, this time. Improvisation, instinct, that legendary nose of yours, all that good shit—you made a career of it. But the world has changed and you forgot to change with it. We’re looking for a silver bullet, not a goddamn wrecking ball. Nobody here can trust your judgment. Which means we can’t trust you.”

“You’ve got to let me do what I do. Send me out, goddammit. I’m needed here.”

“Like fur on flounder, pal.”

“Right now you need to flood the zone. Send out anybody who’s not nailed down. You ferret things out quicker when you’ve got more ferrets.” He stopped. “You said Bekaa Valley. You think it was one of Faraad’s paramilitary groups?”

“Possibly,” the officer-in-charge said, almost sullenly. “Nothing’s been ruled out.”

A shiver ran down Belknap’s spine. The members of the Faraad al-Hasani group had a reputation for extraordinary viciousness. He recalled the photographs of the last American they kidnapped, an executive from an international hotel chain. The images were etched in acid.

“You remember what happened to Waldo Ellison?” Belknap prompted in a low voice. “You saw the pictures, same as me. There were soldering-iron burns over fifty percent of his body. His testicles were found in his stomach, partly digested—they forced him to swallow them. They’d even whittled off most of his nose with a box cutter. They took their time, Will. Slow and steady. That’s what it was like for Waldo Ellison. That’s what it’s going to be like for Jared Rinehart. There’s no time to waste. Don’t you realize that? Don’t you realize what’s in store for him?”

Garrison paled, but his resolve was unshaken. “Of course I do.” A long moment passed before he added, freezingly, “I’m just sorry it wasn’t you instead.”

“Listen, damn you, you’ve got a problem.”

“I know. I’m looking at it.” Garrison shook his head slowly. “Put your shit in boxes or I’ll put you in a box. Cartons or curtains—your choice. But you’re out of here.”

“Focus, Will! What we need to be talking about is how we’re going to exfiltrate Jared. The odds are good that a ransom demand is going to arrive, maybe sometime today.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re not playing it that way,” the manager said tonelessly. “Decision is, we stand pat.”

Belknap leaned in close. He could smell Garrison’s shaving cream again. “You’ve got to be joking.”

Garrison jutted his jaw like a weapon. “Listen up, you asshole. Jared spent the better part of a year creating the character of Ross McKibbin. Some of his best handiwork went into this. And thousands of man-hours went into supporting the op. Reality check: It would be totally out of character for Ross McKibbin’s employers to take any of the measures you’ve suggested. Drug merchants don’t pay ransom. That’s for starters. And they don’t mobilize a hundred operatives to sweep Bekaa Valley for a misplaced emissary. We do anything like that, we’ve just announced that Ross McKibbin is a U.S. cat’s-paw. Which not only endangers Jared Rinehart, but all the assets we had to use in order to backstop the legend. Drucker and I looked at the same facts, came to the same conclusion. If Ross McKibbin is burned, dozens of other assets and operatives are going to be jeopardized. Not to mention an operational budget upwards of three million dollars. A wise man once said, ‘Don’t just do something, stand there.’ You need to size up the situation before you blunder in. That’s something you’ve never really understood. In this case, the right thing to do isn’t whatever guns-blazing bullshit you’re imagining.”

Belknap fought to dampen the rage that began to roil within him. “So your plan of action is…no plan of action?”

Garrison met his gaze. “Maybe you’ve been on active deployment too long. Tell you one thing. I lived through the old Church Committee hearings from the early seventies. Word on the street is, this new Kirk investigation is going to make those hearings look like a tongue bath. Everybody in the intel community is walking on eggshells right now.”

“I can’t believe you’re talking about Washington bullshit at a time like this.”

“Field agents never get it. The office is just another field. Capitol Hill is just another field. Battles are won and lost here, too. If a budget requisition gets crossed out, an operation gets crossed out. The last thing we need is news of any operational irregularities to make the rounds. The last thing we need is you.”

Belknap listened to the parade of rationalizations with a visceral sense of revulsion. Operational man-hours, budgetary allocations—that was what was behind the “prudence” that the O.I.C. was urging. The vaunted concern with security and safety was a smokescreen, nothing more. Garrison had been a manager so long that he could no longer distinguish between lives and budget lines. “You make me ashamed to be in the same profession as you,” Belknap said, numbly.

“There’s nothing we can do that wouldn’t make things worse, goddammit!” Garrison’s eyes sparked and glinted. “Can you get past yourself for a single goddamn moment? You think Drucker likes the idea of standing back? You think I want to be sitting here with my thumb up my ass? None of the folks here do. Not an easy decision to make, for any of us. All the same, there’s unity of command on this one.” He let his gaze drift off to the middle distance. “I don’t expect you to see the bigger picture, but we can’t afford to act. Not just now.”

A fury whipped through Todd Belknap’s very being like a cyclone scouring across a blighted plain. You mess with Pollux, you’ll have Castor on your ass.

With a sudden movement of his arm, Belknap swept the lamp and telephone console off Garrison’s desk. “Do you even believe your goddamn excuses? Because Jared deserves better from us. And he’s going to get it.”

“It’s over,” Garrison said quietly.

It had only just begun.