Because Maximilian Grzybowski and Derek Abbott lived together, Klein was stationed outside their apartment waiting for one to leave. When Abbott stepped out, Klein called in, and Irwin dialed Abbott’s number. The same sternness, but with a few more fraternal quips-Abbott was clearly one of Irwin’s favorites. The same orders, though: Come immediately to the Washington Plaza to speak to the CIA. Tell no one.

Fifteen minutes later, Milo was leading Abbott into the hotel, and Irwin was calling Grzybowski. While they waited, Abbott kept asking Salamon what he knew, and Salamon shrugged meekly. Abbott said, “What’s the deal?”

“The deal,” Irwin snapped, “is that I’m being forced to do this, and I’m not going to believe the charges until these men have proved them to me. And if they don’t prove them, then their careers are in the toilet.”

When Grzybowski joined them, though, he showed none of the patience the first two had been demonstrating. He, unlike them, had spent time in the Department of Tourism, and knew that the man holding the pistol was just another bureaucrat. “Didn’t I tell you, sir? Drummond couldn’t stand losing control of his department, and he was bound to get you back for the humiliation. Jesus. Like fucking high school.”

It was eleven o’clock by the time Milo met William Howington at the opening of the hotel’s looped drive, behind a line of four taxis. He was the first not to immediately follow him into the hotel. “I don’t know who the hell you are.”

“Irwin said to meet him here, right? I’m taking you to him.”

Howington wouldn’t be convinced until he’d called to receive a direct order from Irwin. When they reached the room, his mouth hung open. “Is this a surprise party?”

Milo had not expected any revelations by this point. Though anything was possible, these four men had nothing in their files to suggest they could be working for Zhu. Of the remaining three-Susan Jackson, Jane Chan, and David Pearson-all had had some sort of connection to China, but only the women still had emotional ties to that area: Jackson to mainland China, Chan to Hong Kong. Of those two, Milo’s suspicions rested more with Jackson, who could be used to keep her lover, Feng Liang, safe. Chan had family that could have been used as collateral, but Milo doubted a man with Zhu’s labyrinthine mind would choose an Asian to spy for him.

So his preference was to call Jackson last, but there was a problem. According to Leticia Jones, Chan and Pearson were spending the evening in with some DVDs and delivery pizza. If they called Pearson, he would have to tell Chan where he was going, and Chan-if she were the mole-would be tipped off. Call Chan first, and the same would be true of Pearson.

Klein, who had been watching Jackson’s apartment for the previous hour, told Milo that she had gone to bed alone. “Go ahead,” Milo told Irwin. “Call Jackson.”

He woke her up. “Susan, you need to get down here right away.”

“I just fell asleep. What is it?”

“It’s your career. Now get dressed and meet me at Thomas Circle. The Plaza. The CIA needs to talk with you.”

“CIA? Why?”

“They think you’ve been a bad girl, Susan-and they’re doing a hell of a job convincing me. So get down here and start arguing your side, and don’t call anyone else about this until it’s been cleared up. Understood?”

All the lights in the apartment came on. It took Jackson eleven minutes to dress in sweats and climb into a waiting taxi. Klein followed most of the way, until it let her off on the sidewalk outside the hotel. Milo was already waiting for her, talking with Klein on the phone. “Go join Jones. Once you’re in place we’ll finish this up.”

Jackson, too, doubted Milo was who he said he was, so rather than manhandle her he waited for her to call Irwin. On their way inside, she said, “What do you think I did?”

His phone was ringing. It was Jones. “Pearson is leaving. He looks nervous.”

“Panicked?”

“No, just nervous. He’s checking his watch.”

“The woman’s still in there?”

“Yes. But Klein won’t be here for another five or ten minutes.”

“Stay with her,” Milo ordered. If they called Pearson while he was out, the legislative director would likely still call Chan, if only to explain why he wasn’t returning-they were lovers, after all. “We’ll call Chan next.”

He hung up, and as they waited for the elevator, Jackson said, “Jane Chan?”

He looked at her.

“You’re going to call Jane Chan next? What kind of game is this?”

They boarded the elevator. Milo said, “It’s not a game.”

“It certainly isn’t. If you think Jane’s some kind of criminal, or terrorist, then you’re completely insane.”

“It’s not that simple.”

Jackson was angry now. “You wake people up in the middle of the night to interrogate them? That’s Gestapo tactics. And the CIA doesn’t even have the authority to screw around with people inside the country. What the hell is going on?”

He wasn’t sure why-perhaps because he’d suspected her so strongly, or because she had a history of clashing with the Chinese authorities-but he answered her. “We’re looking for a Chinese mole. It’s one of Irwin’s seven aides, which is why we called you.”

She blinked as the doors opened on the sixth floor. “Jane?”

“She and Pearson are our final suspects.”

“Oh.”

She said that with a strange, unexpected despair. “What?”

“I called her.”

“Chan?”

She nodded. Milo grabbed her elbow and pulled her out of the elevator. “When?”

“Just before I left. I told her-”

“What did you tell her?”

“Just that the CIA was accusing me of something, and I had to go defend myself. I told her-well, it just made sense-I gave her the heads-up. If you were looking into me, then you might start asking her questions.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t you ever had a friend?”

Milo opened the door to the room, and all eyes turned to Jackson, who was still stunned. Milo was already on the phone to Jones. “She knows. Go in now.”

Drummond, in the corner, looked as if the pistol had become too heavy for him. “What?”

Milo looked around the room. “Everyone, you’re free to go. Irwin, you come with me and Alan.”

“Well, isn’t this fucking anticlimactic,” said Max Grzybowski.

It was twelve fifteen when the three men reached Irwin’s long black Chrysler parked around the corner on M Street. Drummond got behind the wheel; Irwin took the backseat, Milo the passenger seat. As they left Thomas Circle, Milo’s phone rang. Again, it was Jones. “I’ve got some bad news for you, Milo.”

“Go ahead.”

“The woman, Chan? She’s sitting on the sofa with two bullets in her chest. Stone cold.”

10

It took nearly twenty minutes to cross the Potomac, head down the Jefferson Davis Highway, and exit into the Del Ray neighborhood of Alexandria. They found Leticia Jones in Pearson’s apartment, standing over Chan’s body, shaking her head. Chan was small, eyes closed on her wide face. Her skin was brutally white, the blood having drained out of two small holes in her chest; one of the bullets had struck high and punctured her aorta. The floor around the sofa was black and sticky.

“It’s no good,” said Jones.

Milo stood beside her. “What’s that?”

Leticia Jones didn’t feel up to explaining herself. She pointed at the window to the building’s courtyard. “That was already open, and here,” she said, crouching on the rug, “are the shells.” She pointed a long, red fingernail at a 9 mm casing moored in the blood, then another. “Super-close range.”

“When did Pearson leave?”

“Got to be forty minutes by now. I guess he wasn’t just picking up milk.”

Drummond approached them from behind. “If I found this on my couch, I wouldn’t be back yet either.”

Whether or not she was the mole, Milo hated to find her dead. He tried to work through how this had happened, avoiding the obvious answer: It had happened because Milo had decided to put his plan into action. Aloud, he said, “Jackson calls Chan to tell her about us. Chan panics and calls Zhu, or whoever her contact is. Zhu sends someone to get rid of her. All in-what? A half hour from Jackson’s call to when Pearson left?”