“Sully didn’t tell me anything. You’re barking up the wrong tree. You should be searching among your own team.”

Conti regarded him carefully, his expression slowly dissolving into something very much like regret. “That’s Wolff’s job.” He sighed. “Listen. I’ve given it a lot of thought, and I can do this one of two ways. If we find that cat, I can make the film I originally intended. With my skills, I can even turn this delay into a benefit: make things more exciting, increase the audience. Everybody wins. Or-I can make this a crime story.”

He jerked his thumb back at the screen. “I’ve always wanted to make a noir picture. Now I can-except I have a true story to tell. A huge story, documented as it plays out in real time: the sabotage, the investigation, the ultimate triumph of justice. Such a story would never die, Dr. Marshall. Imagine the publicity-positive or negative-for those portrayed. All I need do is cast it. Find the hero…and the villain.”

On the huge screen, Victor Mature was crossing a busy street, the urban skyline rising behind him. “Look at him,” Conti said. “An average Joe, caught up in something bigger than himself. Remind you of anybody?”

Marshall did not reply.

Conti shifted again. “So what’s it going to be, Dr. Marshall: do the right thing, side with the cops, squeal on the bad guy? Or do something else…something much more stupid?”

As Mature left the frame, the camera panned in on another figure, hiding in a dark alley: pale, lean, all in black with a white tie, eyes strangely empty. Tommy Udo. Emerging from concealment, he looked carefully around, then disappeared into a doorway.

“I always loved Richard Widmark in this role,” Conti said. “He plays such a great psycho. His mannerisms, his nervous hyena laugh-pure genius.”

Now the killer was creeping stealthily up a narrow staircase.

“I was hoping to cast you as Mature,” Conti said. “But now I’m not so sure. You’re beginning to look a little more like Widmark.”

The killer had entered an apartment and was confronting a terrified old lady in a wheelchair.

“That’s Nick Bianco’s mother,” Conti explained.

The camera looked on, with monochromatic dispassion, as the woman was interrogated, shaken about. Widmark was smiling now, a strange lopsided smile, as he manhandled the grips of the wheelchair, steered it out of the shabby apartment and onto the landing.

“Watch this,” Conti said. “An imperishable moment of cinema.”

Widmark-still smiling, a pale, grinning death’s-head in a black suit-positioned the wheelchair at the top of the stairs. There was the briefest of pauses. Then, with a sudden violent thrust, he sent it and its struggling occupant tumbling down on a one-way ride to perdition.

Conti froze the picture on Widmark’s contorted face. “The network is calling me in six hours. I’ll give you four to make your choice.”

Silently, Marshall rose.

“And remember, Dr. Marshall-one way or the other, I’ll be casting you.”

19

In days past, the officers’ mess had been full of noise and bustle, radiating the kind of irrepressible glee more common to a frat party than a remote army base. This morning it felt more like a morgue. People sat in twos and threes, picking listlessly at their breakfasts, barely talking. Furtive, suspicious glances were exchanged, as if the guilty party could be anyone. Standing in the doorway, Marshall realized this was, in fact, true: anybody in the mess might be the culprit.

His eye settled on a far table, where a man sat alone, reading a book. He was light-haired and thin, with a carefully trimmed beard. Logan, the history professor.

Marshall helped himself to a slice of whole wheat bread and a cup of tea, and then-on impulse-took a seat across from Logan. “Good morning,” he said.

Logan put down the book-Illuminations, by Walter Benjamin-and glanced across the table. “That remains to be seen.”

“All too true.” Marshall peeled open a small tub of marmalade and spread the contents over his bread.

“I guess it’s worse for them than for us.” Logan nodded toward the next table, where the two photographers, Fortnum and Toussaint, sat woodenly pushing scrambled eggs around their plates with shell-shocked expressions. Much of the documentary crew had been put to work searching the base and its surroundings for the missing cat.

“That’s right. Nobody’s made off with my livelihood.” Marshall was careful to keep his tone light. “You?”

Logan stirred his coffee. “Unaffected by the events.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. Professor, right? Of medieval history?”

The stirring slowed. “That’s right.”

“I’m fascinated by the subject. In fact, I’ve been reading a history of the Counter-Reformation.” This was only half true- Marshall ’s nightly reading was, in fact, a book on the Counter-Reformation: but it was with the desperate hope that the incredibly dry exposition would help him find sleep.

Logan raised his eyebrows. He had blue eyes that while at first impression seemed almost drowsy were in fact subtle and penetrating.

“I just finished a chapter on the Council of Trent. Amazing, the impact it had on the Catholic liturgy.”

Logan nodded.

“And since it convened for the fourth time in-1572, right?-there hasn’t been another council as influential.”

The stirring stopped. Logan took a sip of coffee, made a face. “Terrible coffee.”

“You should switch to tea. I did.”

“Maybe I will.” Logan put the cup down. “There were three councils of Trent, not four.”

Marshall didn’t reply.

“And the last was 1563. Not 1572.”

Marshall shook his head. “Guess I was more tired than I realized, getting it wrong like that.”

Logan smiled slightly. “I get the feeling you got it just fine.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Then Marshall laughed ruefully. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That was really ham-handed of me.”

“Can’t say I blame you. I arrive out of nowhere, with a bizarre job description and no good reason to be here-and immediately all hell breaks loose.”

“Even so, I had no right to play with you like that.” Marshall hesitated. “Not that it’s any excuse, but I just came from this really unpleasant meeting with Conti.”

“The director? He and that pit bull from the network, Wolff, gave me a good going-over yesterday afternoon. I’ve never seen anybody so paranoid.”

“Yeah. And the worst thing is, it’s catching. I caught a good dose just now.” And it was still resonating: some of the things Conti had said about Sully, in particular, were more persuasive than Marshall cared to admit. He glanced at his watch: he had three and a half hours to make up his mind.

He took a bite of his toast. “So why are you here, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Logan pushed his cup away. “Doctor’s orders. The climate, you know.”

Marshall shook his head. “I deserved that.”

Another silence settled over the table, but this time it was neither especially awkward nor uncomfortable. Marshall finished his toast. He found his suspicions of Logan fading. There was no logical reason for it, of course, other than the professor was almost certainly what he claimed to be. Rather, it was something about the man-a degree of straightforwardness-that made him difficult to suspect.

Logan sighed. “Okay, let’s start again. Jeremy Logan.” He reached a friendly hand across the table.

Marshall shook it. “Evan Marshall.”

Logan sat back and spoke quietly. “When it comes to my research, I tend to play my cards pretty close to my vest. I make more progress that way. But I guess there’s no reason not to tell you. In fact, you might even be able to help-so long as you don’t mention it to the others.”

“Deal.”

“Actually, I think you’ll see for yourself the wisdom of keeping mum.”