"None at all," she said. "He has his professional life and I have mine, and mine requires from time to time that I travel. He's very understanding."

"Sounds like a nice arrangement," Castillo said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what I said. It sounds like a nice arrangement."

"Somehow, it didn't come across that way. It sounded sarcastic."

"I think you'll know when I'm being sarcastic," he said, then added, "All I'm doing is trying to keep you off the subject of you wanting a look at my story."

"Really?"

"Really."

"That didn't work, either. All you're doing is making me really curious," she said.

"Tell you what I'll do," he said. "As an olive branch. I think we're in the same time zone here as Germany:"

"We are," she furnished.

"The Tages Zeitung goes to bed at one in the morning. If we're still up then, I'll show you my story. If not, I'll show it to you at breakfast."

"You seem pretty sure I'll want to have breakfast with you."

"I don't know what you're thinking but what I had in mind was that we might still be here in the bar-not drinking martinis, of course, which would be likely to get either or both of us in trouble; but maybe coffee-at one A.M.-or that we could meet in the restaurant at, say, half past nine tomorrow morning."

"No, you weren't," she said.

He looked at her a moment.

"Okay, no, I wasn't," he said. "Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. Or, in your case, probably angry. What happens now? You storm out of the bar? With or without throwing what's left of your martini in my face?"

She met his eyes for a long moment.

"You understood me before when I said my husband was very understanding, didn't you?"

"I don't know if I did or not."

"He's twenty-three years older than I am," she said.

"And very understanding."

"Yes, very understanding."

"Yes, I think I understood you," he said. "Would you like another martini?"

"Yes, I would," she said. "Do you think we could get one from room service?"

"I'm sure we could, but why would we want to do that?"

"Because we're going to have to go to your room sooner or later so that you can show me your story, so why not go now?"

"I told you, not until after the Tages Zeitung goes to bed," he said.

"I'll split the difference with you, Karl," she said. "How about after we do?"

"You drive a hard bargain," Castillo said. "But, what the hell, business has been slow."

[ONE]

Office of the Director

The Central Intelligence Agency

Langley, Virginia

1725 6 June 2005

"Secretary Hall is on Secure 2 for you, boss."

The director of Central Intelligence's private reaction to the announcement was somewhat less than unrestrained joy. He had a headache, for one thing, and for another he had promised his wife that he would really try to get home for once on time, if not early. They were having dinner at the White House.

But he smiled his thanks at his executive assistant, picked up his phone, and pushed the second of four red buttons on his telephone.

"And a very good afternoon to you, Mr. Secretary," he said. "And how may the Central Intelligence Agency be of service?"

"I'm glad I caught you, John."

"I was, literally, about to stand up and walk out the door. What's on your mind?"

"We have what might be a problem," the secretary of homeland security said.

"You sound serious, Matt."

"Unfortunately, I am."

"You're on a secure line?"

"Yeah."

"So tell me."

"Are you going to the White House tonight?"

"I don't think you're just idly curious, Matt. Yeah. Aren't you?"

"I think we should talk this through before we go there and are asked about it."

"Talk what through? You want to come over here? I'll wait for you."

"What I'd really like for you to do is come to the Mayflower. Suite 404."

"You mean right now?"

"Right now, John. I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important."

The director didn't reply for a moment. Then he said, "Matt, I don't want to have to come all the way into the District only to have to go back across the bridge to get dressed and then go back across that damned bridge again. At rush hour. Will this wait until I go home and put on a black tie? That way I can bring Eleanor with me and we'll be right around the corner from the White House."

"How would Eleanor feel about having a drink in the Mayflower bar with one of your bodyguards while we talk?"

"She won't like it but she'll do it."

"Okay, John, thank you. I'll be expecting you."

"I'll be there as soon as I can, Matt. Four-oh-four, you said?"

"Four-oh-four," Hall said.

"Okay," the DCI said and hung up.

Then he telephoned his wife, told her that he was just now leaving the office for the house, but as soon as he got there he would have to take a quick shower, put on a dinner jacket, and leave immediately. He told her she had her choice of going with him right now and having a drink in the bar of the Mayflower while he talked to someone or going into the District later alone and meeting him outside the Mayflower or at the White House, whichever she preferred.

Eleanor said that what she really would prefer was that he come home as he said he would really try to do and that they go to the White House together, but since that was obviously out of the question, again, she would do whatever was best for him.

"Let me think about it on the way home," he said.

"Do that, John," she said. "Think about it."

Then she hung up.

[TWO]

The Mayflower Hotel

1127 Connecticut Avenue NW

Washington, D.C.

1925 6 June 2005

The director of Central Intelligence had been driven alone-his choice-from his home to the Mayflower hotel in a dark blue GMC Yukon. The Yukon was armored and the windows were deeply tinted. There were three shortwave antennae on the roof.

But the vehicle, the director believed, would not attract very much attention. There were probably three hundred nearly identical vehicles moving around the district and by no means did all of them belong to the government. He suspected that maybe half of them belonged to, say, middle-level bureaucrats in, say, the Department of Agriculture, who had bought them to impress the neighbors, as a, say, middle-level bank manager in St. Louis, Missouri, would have bought a Jaguar or a Cadillac he really couldn't afford for the same purpose.

In Washington, prestige came with power rather than money. In Washington, and environs, the way to impress the neighbors was to look as if you were important enough to move around in an armored, window-darkened Yukon with antennae on the roof.

The DCI's Yukon and the DCI himself attracted little attention when he rolled up in front of the Mayflower, quickly got out, and marched across the lobby to the bank of elevators, even though he was preceded and trailed by security men.

They ascended to the fourth floor. One of the security men got off the elevator first, looked up and down the corridor, and then indicated the direction of Suite 404 with a nod of his head.

The security man waited until the DCI started off the elevator, then led the way down the corridor to 404, where he knocked three times on the door.

It was opened by a young man in a dinner jacket. The security man quickly scrutinized the guy. He was not of the beady-eyed political lackey sort that the security man was accustomed to encountering in this town. He showed confidence and control.

"Who are you?" the security man asked, not very politely.

The young man glanced down the corridor, saw the DCI approaching, and evenly replied, "If you're looking for Secretary Hall, this is it." He opened the door wider.