Harry Muller sat blindfolded, with his ankles shackled, in what felt like a comfortable leather chair. He smelled burning wood and cigarette smoke.

He could hear people speaking in low tones, and he thought he heard Bain Madox’s voice.

Someone slid the blindfold down around his neck, and as his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw that he was sitting at the end of a long pine table. Also sitting at the table were five other men: two on each side, and at the head of the table, facing him, was Bain Madox. The men were speaking to one another as if he wasn’t there.

In front of each man were legal pads, pens, water bottles, and coffee cups. Harry noticed a keyboard in front of Madox.

He looked around the room, which was a library or a den. The fireplace was to his left, flanked by two windows whose drapes were drawn so that he couldn’t see out, but he knew from his blindfolded walk from his cell that he was on the ground floor.

Standing near the door were Carl and another security guard. They were wearing holstered pistols but not carrying cattle prods.

He now noticed a very big, black leather suitcase sitting upright in the middle of the floor. It was an old suitcase, strapped to a wheeled caddy.

Bain Madox seemed to notice him for the first time and said, “Welcome, Mr. Muller. Coffee? Tea?”

Harry shook his head.

Madox said to the other four men, “Gentlemen, this is the man I told you about-Detective Harry Muller, NYPD, retired, currently working for the Federal Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Please make him feel welcome.”

Everyone acknowledged their guest with a nod.

Harry thought two of the guys looked familiar.

Madox continued, “As you know, gentlemen, we have a few friends on the Task Force, but apparently none of them were aware that Mr. Muller was going to drop in today.”

One of the men said, “We’ll need to look into that.”

The others nodded in unison.

Harry tried to see through this bullshit, to reinforce his hope that this was an elaborately staged test. But somewhere in the back of his mind, this hope was fading, though he clung to it.

Madox motioned to the guards, who left the room.

Harry looked at the men along the table. Two were about Madox’s age, one was older, and the one to his right was younger than the rest. They all wore blue blazers and casual plaid shirts like Madox, as though this were the uniform of the day.

Harry focused on the two men who looked familiar; he was sure he’d seen them on TV or in the newspapers.

Madox noticed Harry’s stare and said, “Forgive me for not formally introducing my Executive Board-”

One of the men interrupted, “Bain, names are not necessary.”

Madox replied, “I think Mr. Muller recognizes a few of you, anyway.”

No one responded, except Harry. “I don’t need any names-”

“You need,” said Madox, “to know what august company you are in.” Madox indicated the man to his immediate right-the oldest person in the room and the one who had made the objection. “Harry, this is Paul Dunn, adviser to the president on matters of national security and a member of the National Security Council, whom you probably recognize.”

Madox turned to the person sitting next to Dunn, near Harry, and said, “This is General James Hawkins, United States Air Force and a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whom you may also recognize, though Jim is a low-profile guy.”

Madox indicated the man to his left. “This is Edward Wolffer, the deputy secretary of defense, who likes the cameras. Never stand between Ed and a news camera or you’ll get knocked over.” Madox smiled, but no one else did. Madox added, “Ed and I graduated from Infantry Officer Candidate School together, Fort Benning, Georgia, April 1967. We served in Vietnam at the same time. He’s made quite a name for himself since then, while I’ve made a lot of money.”

Wolffer didn’t smile at what Harry thought must be an old joke by now.

Madox continued, “And to your right, Harry, is Scott Landsdale of the Central Intelligence Agency, who is definitely camera shy, and who is also the CIA liaison to the White House.”

Harry glanced at Landsdale. He seemed a little cocky and arrogant, like most of the CIA guys Harry had had the misfortune to work with.

Madox said, “This is the Executive Board of the Custer Hill Club. The rest of our members-about a dozen men this weekend-are hiking or bird-hunting, which I hope doesn’t upset you.” He explained to the other men, “Mr. Muller is a bird-watcher.”

Harry wanted to say, “Fuck you,” but remained silent. He understood now that the guys in this room had not come here from Washington to participate in a test of Harry Muller’s qualifications for a bigger and better job.

Madox told Harry, “This holiday weekend was to be a regularly scheduled gathering to discuss world affairs, to exchange information, and to just enjoy some camaraderie. But your presence here has made it necessary for me to call this emergency meeting of the Executive Board. I’m sure that means nothing to you now, but it will later.”

Harry said, “I don’t want to hear any of this.”

“I thought you were a detective.” He stared at Harry and said, “I’ve had a little time to check you out with our friends in the ATTF, and you appear to be who you say you are.”

Harry didn’t reply, but he wondered who Madox’s friends were in the ATTF.

Mr. Madox informed him, “If you were an FBI agent, or CIA, we’d be very concerned.”

Scott Landsdale, the CIA man, said, “Bain, I can assure you that Mr. Muller is not a CIA officer.”

Madox smiled. “I suppose it takes one to know one.”

Landsdale continued, “And I’m fairly certain that Mr. Muller is not FBI. He is what he appears to be-a cop, working for the FBI, on surveillance.”

“Thank you for that assurance,” said Madox.

“You’re welcome. Now, I’d like some assurance, Bain. You weren’t very clear about when Mr. Muller will be reported as missing in action.”

Madox replied, “Ask Mr. Muller. He’s right next to you.”

Landsdale turned to Harry. “When do they start wondering where you are? No lies. I know how they work at 26 Fed. And what I don’t know, I can find out.”

Harry thought, Typical CIA bastard, always pretending they know more than they actually know. Harry replied, “Well, then, find out yourself.”

Landsdale resumed without comment, like a trained interrogator, “Will anyone call you?”

“How do I know? I’m not psychic.”

Madox interjected, “I’m checking his cell phone and beeper every half hour or so. The only message was from Lori. That’s his girlfriend. I’ll send her a text message later from Mr. Muller’s cell phone.”

Landsdale nodded. “God forbid anyone on the Task Force would interrupt their holiday weekend.” He asked Harry, “When are you supposed to get back to 26 Fed?”

“When I get there.”

“Who gave you this assignment? Walsh or Paresi?”

Harry thought this guy knew too much about the Task Force. He replied, “I get my orders on an audiotape that self-destructs.”

“Me, too. What did your audiotape say, Harry?”

“I already answered that. IRA surveillance.”

“That’s really lame.” Landsdale said to the others, “Mr. Muller’s assignment probably came from Washington, and in the hallowed tradition of intelligence work, no one tells anyone more than someone thinks they need to know. That, unfortunately, is how 9/11 happened. Things have changed, but old habits are hard to break, and sometimes they’re not bad habits. Mr. Muller, for instance, can’t tell us what he doesn’t know.” He added, “I’m fairly sure we’re okay for at least forty-eight hours. His girlfriend will probably miss him long before his supervisor does.” He addressed Harry. “Is she connected to law enforcement or to the intelligence business in any way?”