As Jan silently replaced empty coffee cups with full ones, Oskar peered through the slit in the door, finally catching Brigit’s eye. Her joy seemed to dissipate, replaced by… could it be embarrassment? Then she got hold of herself and gave Oskar a short, sharp shake of the head. He didn’t withdraw. Instead he motioned at Wartmüller, and waited.

Finally, she bowed to Wartmüller’s ear and whispered. Wartmüller found Oskar in the doorway. His smile remained as he said, “Just a moment, gentlemen,” and got up.

There was no anger when he came out into the corridor, just condescension. “Oskar! I can’t say you’ve chosen the best time for a chat.”

“Sorry, sir, but it couldn’t wait.”

“It couldn’t wait another half hour?”

“It couldn’t wait until the Americans had left.”

A pair of secretaries passed, and Oskar moved closer to the room’s window, covered by venetian blinds. Wartmüller followed him. “Well?”

“Listen, I… I don’t feel entirely comfortable coming to you with this, but I don’t have a choice. Loyalty only goes so far, and then you have to start answering to your conscience.”

Wartmüller eyed him. “What are you getting at, Oskar?”

“It’s Erika. She’s been taking things into her own hands. Things that you should be aware of, particularly if you’re speaking openly with the Americans.”

“Please, Oskar. Time is precious.”

He took a long, exaggerated breath. “Last week-Friday-she met with Milo Weaver.”

“Milo-why?”

“They’ve formed an alliance. I can’t say what Erika’s getting out of it-she won’t tell me-but I do know that she’s helping Weaver investigate a mole in the CIA.”

Wartmüller considered that for a moment, though in the end he simply repeated the word. “Mole?”

“A Chinese mole. When I asked her what this had to do with us, she said that until the mole was tracked down, everything we said to the Americans would end up in Beijing. So I told her-I said that we had to bring you in. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know what to hold back.”

“And what did she say to that?” Wartmüller said distantly, a finger brushing his chin.

“She said that you would get in her way. Just to spite her. She said that you would stop her from talking to them.”

“To whom?”

“To the men in the room right now. She’s waiting for them in the parking lot.”

Wartmüller rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his right hand. “You’re telling me that Erika’s standing outside, waiting to tell the Americans that they’ve got a mole?”

“Yes, sir.”

Then he said exactly what Erika had said he would say. “Listen, Oskar. I want you to tell me everything you know about this mole theory. What department? How long has he been around?”

Oskar shook his head. “She’s only told me what I’ve told you. Except…”

“Except what?”

“She wanted me to pull up everything we have on an American senator. Nathan Irwin. Republican.”

“Okay,” said Wartmüller, thinking through all of this.

“It’s hard,” said Oskar.

“Certainly is.”

“No, I mean this. Going behind her back. I don’t want you to think this is how I treat my superiors.”

Wartmüller got a distant look again; then he focused and smiled grimly, placing a heavy hand on Oskar’s shoulder. “Oskar, listen to me. You have no reason to feel guilty. Understand? You’ve done the right thing.”

“Thank you, sir. That helps.”

An hour later, when he was back at his desk, Erika came in slowly, moving her immense body from support to support-the doorway, the back of a chair, the corner of his desk. She said, “It’s freezing outside.”

“It is,” said Oskar.

“Any idea if Wartmüller’s visitors have gone yet?”

“I believe they left about twenty minutes ago.”

“Hmm.” She moved back to her chair, both hands gripping it. “I suppose someone showed them the rear exit. You think that’s possible, Oskar?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, smiling. “Anything’s possible.”

8

The call came through at 1:23 P.M. on Tuesday, while Drummond was in the conference room, discussing with the fraud section the movement of funds between three banks-Cayman, Swiss, and Pakistani-and its connection (recently discovered by Malik Tareen, a Tourist who’d been in Lahore for nearly six months) to an Afghan tribe known to be hosting Taliban fighters. Unlike his predecessors, Drummond brought in two advisers from the director’s office to listen and offer advice on the next step, and it was generally agreed that while Tourism could squelch the money trail, the army should be brought in to deal with the tribe. Since the army didn’t know of Tourism’s existence, the information would have to flow through the deputy director of the National Clandestine service, who was one of the few people below the director’s office cleared to have knowledge of Tourism.

With Irwin back in Washington, this was Drummond’s second day as absolute sovereign, and it had been a beautiful day so far-no bad news had come through, no signs of impending disaster-and then his secretary told him of the call on line twelve. His mind was still on banking when he answered, and his “Drummond here” had none of the force it usually carried.

“It’s me,” said Milo.

Drummond blinked at Ascot’s men, who pretended not to be listening in. “Yes. How’s the job search coming?”

“I’m heading to an interview in D.C. right now. You’re on.”

“Okay,” he said, but Weaver had already hung up.

He wrapped up the meeting and returned to the floor to find Harry Lynch hunched over his keyboard, the remnants of a tuna sandwich all over his desk. “Harry, can you come to my office?”

“Uh, sir. Yes.”

He got up and followed Drummond to the far end of the floor, and once they were inside Drummond said, “Shut it, please.”

Lynch closed the door.

“Sit down. Please.”

Cordial behavior always seemed to trouble Lynch, and he lowered himself into a chair slowly, as if anything faster would lead to a reprimand.

“Thanks for taking care of those recalls for me, Harry. Are we still under the radar?”

Lynch nodded. “I’ve moved them around occasionally so no one will think they’re comatose.”

“Good idea. I’ve got one more thing to ask-can you flag seven passports so that no one else in the building knows about it?”

“Virtual keyboard,” said Lynch, shrugging.

“Excuse me?”

“I open a virtual keyboard on the screen and use the mouse to type my instructions. That way, the in-house keystroke recorder doesn’t pick it up.”

“Sounds simple,” Drummond said.

Lynch didn’t answer either way.

Drummond unfolded his wallet, took out a slip of paper, and handed it over. “Here are the passport numbers. I’ll need you to put my personal cell phone down as the initial contact, and the order is to hold the person until I’ve arrived.”

“No problem.”

“Or,” Drummond began, thinking through everything. “Me, or Milo Weaver.”

Lynch blinked a few times. “Milo’s still around?”

“Advising. And that, too, stays between you and me. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Lynch grinned happily, his discomfort gone, and Drummond felt a pang of jealousy-the mention of his own name would lighten the moods of very few people.

Once Lynch was gone, he picked up his phone, but before he could dial, Irwin called on line seven. “That’s funny, Nathan. I was just about to call you.”

“Hilarious,” said Irwin. “Say, do you know how I can get in touch with Weaver? He’s not answering his phone.”

“No idea, sir. I haven’t talked to him since last week.”

“He say anything about going to Germany?”

“No… Why would he be in Germany?”

“Well, if you do hear from him, tell him I might have found some consulting work. Good pay and benefits. Tell him to call me.”

“I’ll do that. Say, are you going to be free this evening?”

A pause. “Why?”

“Because I’m heading to D.C. now, and I wanted to go over some departmental issues with you.”