“One more,” Ebbers said. He pointed to the last paper in the pile and told her to turn to page A2.

In one of what she assumed were many follow-up articles to the prior quarantine piece, the last in Ebbers’s series of exhibits, published yesterday, confirmed the successful quarantine of the localized flu epidemic. Thirty-two additional victims had died, raising the total casualty count to 125, but the more recent victims had already contracted the virus at the time of the quarantine and there had been no further reported infections. The article echoed the concerns expressed by authorities in the prior article, stating that all victims who contracted the virus had in fact died from its rapidly progressing symptoms, which were said to be the same as in other flu cases but far more severe. There was another reference to the LaBelle flu breakout being a unique strain, rather than the mutated form of H5N1 experts were wary might develop soon.

Concluding she ought to read newspapers more often and shake her addiction to the heroin of cable television news, Laramie deposited the third newspaper on the other two, drank most of the rest of her coffee, set the cup on the table, and folded her hands in front of her. She felt awkward in a specific way she couldn’t place.

“Be interested,” Ebbers said, “in hearing what you think.”

It suddenly occurred to Laramie the reason she was feeling uncomfortable: it seemed she had stumbled into a job interview. In realizing this, she found it difficult to determine how she was expected to act-what she was supposed to say. Sure, Ebbers had summoned her by way of Malcolm Rader, and appeared to be interviewing her-but for what position, she had no idea.

Makes for a tough interview.

“First of all,” she said, “I suppose I’d hazard a guess there’s a higher likelihood than the Centers for Disease Control admits that the gas main explosion and the flu epidemic were linked.”

Ebbers watched her but didn’t interject.

“And if there is, in fact, some kind of connection,” she said, “then it could also follow that the sheriff was slightly premature in dismissing the possibility that the explosion was an act of terrorism. I’d guess, therefore, that’s why he specifically came out and said so. But anybody you show these three articles to-at least anyone in our line of work-would draw the same conclusions, I think.”

“Possibly,” Ebbers said.

Laramie shifted in her chair, which still didn’t help her figure out what to do with her hands. After a while, when Ebbers hadn’t said anything further, Laramie locked them together on the surface of the table.

“If you’d like me to assess potential culpability,” she said, “based on the theory it’s an act of terrorism and the blast and virus are connected, then I’m going to need to ask a lot of questions.”

“All right.”

Laramie wasn’t sure whether he’d meant, All right, then go ahead and ask the questions, but considering that for the second time in as many minutes, Ebbers said nothing further, Laramie figured it was safe to conclude he wanted her to proceed.

She was, after all, in a job interview.

“Did the explosion actually have anything to do with a burst gas main?” she said. “If not, what was the nature of the explosion? Where did it originate? What were the materials used to cause the blast? Was it a crude car bomb, or sophisticated plastic explosive charge? Remote detonation or suicide bomber? If suicide, who was driving the car? Who owned it?”

Ebbers remained silent and unexpressive, so Laramie went on.

“If the flu epidemic was tied to the explosion, what was the connection? Did the bomb release some kind of toxin that results in flu-like symptoms? If it’s actually the flu, what strain of influenza is this? New? Old? If old, where else has this severe an outbreak occurred before? Were studies done on that outbreak and samples of the virus stored at a lab? Who had access to that lab? Or is it really the first true outbreak of mutated H5N1? I suppose I could continue.”

Ebbers said, “As you know, the independent counsel lauded your efforts in the Mango Cay matter. We agree with the counsel’s assessment.”

Since it was hard to miss, Laramie noted Ebbers’s use of the word we. She knew better than to ask.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What we found most compelling,” Ebbers said, “was your allegiance. Even when both your job security and explicit orders from your superiors countermanded that allegiance, you remained impervious to influence from outside or above, and concentrated solely on shutting down what you perceived to be an intended act of deadly force by an enemy of the state. Also it did not appear that you required much in the way of supervision in the course of getting the job done.”

Laramie wasn’t sure what to say, so she didn’t say anything.

Ebbers reached into the interior breast pocket of his suit and came out with a stapled document of something in the order of fifty pages. It was creased down the middle from the way he’d stored it in his pocket.

“One of your classes at Northwestern was an independent study project,” he said.

Laramie had to think about this for a moment, mainly since she’d taken two such courses. In each, she’d been required to generate a limited version of a thesis but, other than regular meetings with the designated professor, you didn’t have to attend class to get credits for the courses. Some chose the electives out of laziness. Laramie had taken hers for two reasons: first, she’d wanted to explore a pair of topics that no available courses covered; and, mostly, she’d seen it as an opportunity to spend a little more time with a professor named Eddie Rothgeb. Which in retrospect had been a very bad idea.

“Actually I took two,” she said. “Junior and senior years.”

Ebbers flattened the photocopied document on the table before him and Laramie could plainly see the cover page she’d printed for her senior independent study paper. The former DCI turned the cover and flipped through the first few pages of the report, which she recalled being fifty-seven pages in length. At the time, her longest report of any kind.

As Ebbers began leafing through some of the pages, Laramie could see that the copy Ebbers had brought with him had various sections underlined, highlighted, even boxed. Handwritten and typed notes bled from the margins across the original text, and at the top of each page was a stamp. The only word she could make out on the stamp was CRYPTOCLEARANCE. There was a hyphen followed by a number at the tail end of the word, but from across the table she couldn’t make out the number. The number, she knew, would indicate the level of clearance required to gain access to the document, and while she might not have been able to see the number, the odd fact remained that Laramie’s fifty-seven-page undergraduate independent study paper appeared to have been classified at one of the nine highest levels of secrecy in the American government.

The higher the number that followed, the fewer the number of people who were allowed to see it: while CRYPTOCLEARANCE-1 might have meant that every member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence, the president’s cabinet, and three or four tiers of CIA, NSA, and FBI senior staff had access, CRYPTOCLEARANCE-9 was supposed to mean that maybe eight to ten people on earth made the cut.

Laramie felt the twirl of butterflies in her stomach as she thought she caught the numeral 6 on one of the stamp marks. This seemed impossible, or at the very least disturbingly strange. Then Ebbers turned the page and she realized it was not a 6 at all-because, as was rather obvious, she was reading upside down.

What?

Laramie attempted to freeze her brain for a moment. Stop it from reacting and point it, instead, in the direction of her paper. She preferred to do this by a method recommended to her by her father; he’d told her about it during one of his drunken fits, if she recalled correctly, but it had stuck. He’d recommended she count to three in the famous childhood manner-by then, he told her, you’d better be able to figure out what to do.