“Again,” Quintero said with a sigh, “I’m here to help clean it up. Same as you. None of the principals who initiated this remain with the Agency. They’re all sport fishing in Florida by now. How’s that for a reward for burning millions of taxpayer dollars?”

“Typical,” Alex said.

“I can’t say I disagree with you,” Quintero said. “Look, that’s why we’re asking you to work with us.” Quintero paused. “You’re one of the few people who has actually met Michael Cerny. Cerny came to us when we wanted to act against Yuri Federov. He was a special consultant with a heavy background in Ukrainian affairs. He seemed a good risk.” He paused. “Speaking of Federov, I’m told you’ve been in touch with him.”

“That’s correct. He’s in New York for some sort of medical treatment,” she said. “I’m not sure that he’d be of much use right now.”

“But you’re not inhibited from asking, correct?” Quintero asked.

She thought about it. “Probably not.”

“Good,” he said, with an air of conclusion. He stood up from the table. “Now, you’re with us on this, correct? You’re officially on this assignment?”

“I’m with you,” Alex said. “As long as I have the option of calling some of my own shots while I’m in the field.”

“You’ll be working with a team in Cairo,” he said. “We have one of our top Middle Eastern people there. A man named Bissinger, whom you’ll meet at the embassy. He’ll direct you to your field contact. The field contact is known only by his code name. That’s all I can tell you here; you’ll be thoroughly briefed when you get there. You’ll have the latitude you’re asking for, though,” Quintero continued. “You’ve earned it, and you’ve demonstrated that you use it prudently.”

“Then I’m on board. Perhaps against my better judgment.”

“This whole Agency operates on people going against their better judgment. Maybe it should be called the Counterintuitive Intelligence Agency.”

“What about passport? Identification? Weapon?” Alex asked.

“Before you leave here today, give us a name and birth date that you’re sure to remember. We’ll have new IDs operational within twelve hours. Have some new pictures taken before you leave here today. Pick them up tomorrow. You’ll get a new weapon at the embassy in Cairo. I’m told they’ve got quite a collection.”

“Cool,” she said with an edge.

“Have a name that you might prefer?” he asked. “For the new IDs?”

“No,” she said. “Surprise me.”

“Really?” he asked. She had just surprised him.

“We’re inclined to give away subconscious clues to a real identity when we choose our covers,” she said. “If someone else picks a name and identity for me, I’ll learn it. But at least it won’t give away anything.”

“Very well,” he said, rising from where he sat. “How’s your arm?”

“Still attached to the rest of me.”

“Good. Keep it that way.” He led her to the door. “Now. There’s something else you should see. Follow me,” he said.

“Where are we going?”

“Private TV screening,” he said. “Foreign television, a special show starring one of your favorite people.”

Alex and William Quintero walked down a quiet corridor of mostly closed doors, a few with names on them-but primarily numbers. Quintero spoke in a low voice.

“How much do you know about Vladimir Putin?” Quintero asked.

“I know he’s the former Russian president and still pretty much running the country,” she answered. “Sort of a neo-Stalin for our times.”

“That would be Vladimir Putin, yes,” Quintero said.

“Well, I read the newspapers and speak Russian,” Alex said. “So I know more than your basic citizen but less than your experts. Or maybe I know more than your experts when they’re having a bad day. How’s that?”

“Pretty good,” Quintero said. “And I give you an A for self-assurance.”

“Sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be. I like it. Russia and the old Soviet territory are my field,” Quintero said. “I speak the language okay. Could never master it, though. I read it better than I can hear or speak it. Learned it as an adult. You probably learned it earlier.”

“Boarding school. University. A work-study program in Moscow,” she said.

“Boyfriends in Moscow when you were studying?”

“Maybe.”

“There you go,” he said. “Your file says you’re gifted with languages as well as with people.”

“The file flatters me. That, or it libels me.”

“And you do deflect a question well. Okay, Brother Putin is one of the dominant figures of our time,” Quintero said as they continued down the hall. “He took a Russia that was bankrupt and coming apart at the seams in 2000 and restored it as a world power. No small trick. Like him or not, and like most Americans I don’t, Putin’s brilliant, cunning, vulgar, occasionally charming, possibly sociopathic, and probably the most cold-blooded bastard on the world stage since Stalin or Hitler. On top of that, he’s much beloved by his countrymen. So he’s here to stay unless we get lucky and some Slavic sorehead shoots him. But I never said that, right?”

“Not to me, at least,” she said.

“Thanks. God knows, power loves a vacuum in Russia. Any ruler who’s soft gets replaced by a dictator within a few months. It’s like the Middle East. How do you hope for democracy where they’ve never had it?”

She let the question fly off into space without a response. She didn’t know a short answer anyway.

Quintero arrived at the door he wanted and unlocked it with a swipe of his ID card. The lights went on automatically as he led her into a small viewing room. There was a large screen on the forward wall and a dozen large chairs. Whatever Quintero had to show her, it was going to be shown on a big screen.

“You’re going to be dealing with Russians again in the near future,” he said. “I’ll get you the proper background files. Electronic transfer. Put it on your own laptop, but be careful to keep it behind your own security wall. Okay?”

“Done.”

“Grab a seat,” he said. “Any seat.”

She did.

“No popcorn,” Quintero said as he went to a control panel.

“I’ll survive.”

Quintero flicked a few controls. The lights went down and the screen came alive with encrypted graphics, codes for what they were about to see. Quintero slid into the chair next to Alex with a control in his hand.

“This is from Russian television. December of 2005. Let me know if you’ve ever seen it before.”

An image came alive on the screen. The colors were faded and distorted, as if from bad video tape. There was an empty conference room on the screen.

“Here’s what’s going on,” Quintero said. “Vladimir Putin appears on television in broadcasts to the Russian-speaking people of the world. That way he reminds people who’s in charge. He is.”

On the screen, Alex could see the figures of various men coming into view and taking their seats at a conference table. There appeared to be five men, all in suits. She caught glimpses of faces but didn’t recognize anyone.

She shook her head. “Whatever this is, it’s new to me,” she said.

“It’s fairly new to all of us,” Quintero said.

“These appearances are daily occurrences on Russian TV,” Quintero said. “Putin holds staged meetings in important-looking conference rooms. In reality, the rooms don’t exist. They’re sets built with government money and kept at various points around the country. So wherever he is, Putin can give a fake meeting.”

“When was this again?”

“December 12, 2005. We recognize the conference room. Or the set. This was recorded at Novo-Ogaryovo.”

“Novo-Ogaryovo?” she asked. “That’s a new one to me.”

“Putin’s suburban estate outside Moscow,” Quintero explained. “Notice the Christmas tree. Nice homey touch, huh? The ‘conference room’ is a TV set at Putin’s estate.”

Alex had already noticed the tree. “Seriously. My eyes are getting damp, I’m so moved,” she said. “I’m sure there were cookies baking, also.”