Rather than leave anything to chance or election returns, the minister of defense decried this terrible tragedy, declared himself prime minister for the length of the former leader’s term, and promptly imprisoned the opposition leader and all the top members of his party. The opposition leader, of course, was Gates’s man.

Gates quickly moved to reduce CIA’s presence in the region and bagged any further plans to install a new leader, switching instead to a grassroots strategy of antigovernment propaganda. He had cargo planes dump leaflets on the country’s bigger cities, blasted the regional airwaves with powerful radio broadcasts, and coordinated with anyone willing to participate in a domestic disinformation campaign documenting whatever fictional atrocities he felt were appropriate to sully the reputation of the former minister of defense.

Encouraged by his men’s club comrades to do so, Gates shelved his concerns for the twelve-man team he’d sent down to engineer the coup. They were an extreme liability, especially as Gates had undertaken the operation on his own initiative, but in time he felt safe concluding that all twelve had died. A month after the botched raid, Gates had notified the media that a DC-3, sent on a relief mission to Zimbabwe, had crashed in a treacherous African mountain range, killing all twelve passengers. The names on the manifest mysteriously matched those Gates had sent to assassinate the Central American prime minister.

Gates was promoted shortly thereafter to deputy director of operations.

That put him at sixteen years ago, coming out of Cleo’s on a Thursday afternoon, having just finished a lunch with a particularly well-connected undersecretary of state.

Gates hadn’t met anyone on the team he’d sent to Central America, so there wasn’t any reason for him to recognize the tall, deeply tanned man who bumped him while Gates was making for his car outside the club. The man apologized, then followed him the block and a half to his car, Gates driving a big Buick that year.

That’s when the man, back then, said, “So you’re Gates.”

The man had short black hair. He wore a suit and overcoat. Despite the wardrobe selection, he failed to come off as one of the men’s club set.

Gates recognized him as the same man who had bumped into him outside of Cleo’s. He felt a surge of fear, wondering whether he should duck into the driver’s seat and speed off while he still had the Buick between them.

“Well, yes,” he replied.

“We should talk,” the man said.

The stranger had a baritone voice and cold, vacant eyes. Gates pulled himself together, thinking the guy could be a reporter-that he should be careful what he said, or admitted.

“What about?” he said. “What do you want to talk about?”

The stranger jerked his head, said, “Over here,” and walked off past the hood of the Buick and across the street to Dupont Circle, a brief expanse of green packed with concrete benches and a fountain. He waited for Gates to make up his mind. This took about ninety seconds, the stranger just standing at the edge of the park, appearing more interested in the circle’s pivotal fountain than in Gates’s decision-making process.

Gates dodged a car or two and brought himself even with the stranger as the man strolled along the trail encircling the fountain. After about a quarter-loop on the path, Gates felt compelled to speak.

“Why might I want to talk?”

The stranger looked at him. “I didn’t say you’d want to,” he said, “only that we should.”

They strolled on, the stranger quiet for another quarter-loop. “I’m officially dead,” he said eventually, as casually as though he were discussing the flora. “But it should be obvious to you that I am alive.”

Gates wasn’t firing on all cylinders. He said, “Right.”

“‘Eclipse,’” the stranger said.

Jesus! Gates nearly jumped out of his skin.

How could he-Christ, how could any man have made it, and why hadn’t he heard from him before now?

Eclipse.

It was the term he had used as the internal memo coding for the flubbed Central American assassination effort: Operation Eclipse.

Gates realized he had clammed up and, in order to say something, said, “You’re being somewhat vague,” and was already thinking about how much it was going to cost him to keep this son of a bitch quiet when the stranger spoke again.

“Don’t bullshit me.” They were halfway around their second loop of the park. “But don’t panic, either.”

Gates looked ahead, behind, to the side, seeing no one but the usual derelicts loitering in defiance of the city ordinance, draped across the benches like they owned the place. There were no members of Cleo’s to come to the rescue, so Gates continued walking.

“Why shouldn’t I?” he said.

“Because,” the stranger said, “I’ve got a solution.”

“Oh?”

“What we’ll do,” the stranger said, “is find a nice posting somewhere. I’m seeing a small place-lots of sun, some sand, water, not much going on, maybe some fishing to pass the day. There’s a spot I’m thinking of that might just work. They call them the British Virgin Islands-the BVIs. Why not? Then let’s tenure me. You can finance it out of, oh, I don’t know, pick a fund. Call me a GS-14 and pay me that plus hazard pay. Any GS-14 in the British Virgins is likely to be chief of station, so let’s go ahead and assign me that title too. This sound all right so far?”

“It sounds difficult,” Gates said.

“But not impossible. I’m in the BVIs, hell, there probably isn’t much else to do-I’ll even work for you. Keep a keen eye out for any intel, routine or otherwise, coming out of the strategically significant Antilles region. Even better are the things I won’t say to-”

“I get it.”

The stranger stopped and stared at Gates with those vacant eyes.

“If you get it,” the stranger said, “then I’ll see you in your office tomorrow morning at nine, at which time you’ll provide me all necessary documentation on the numbered account which will already contain the trust. The trust should be of sufficient size to afford my salary for a minimum of forty-five years, including cost-of-living increases, periodic promotions, and hazard pay. I will control the trust, not you. I’ll be using the name Cooper, first initial W., because I like the sound of it, and will expect a pass waiting for me at the gate, along with my Agency ID and a manufactured employee-history file under that name. Do we need to go into the ‘attorney-at-law who’s been instructed to release such-and-such to the Justice Department and news media under the following circumstances’ crap in order to keep you from sending your goons after me?”

Gates said, “No.”

The stranger didn’t nod, acknowledge that he was leaving, or otherwise announce the end of the conversation, but, instead, simply walked away.

Before he reached the fountain in the center of the park, the stranger turned. Gates caught a flash of his hollow eyes.

“There’s something else,” the stranger said. “If I ever need you, I’ll call under a code name. Could be an emergency, something I need taken care of, or maybe just a favor for a friend I’m looking to impress. When I call, you’ll do as I say, no questions asked, and if I’m using the code when I make the call, then you’ll know I’m not calling just to chat.”

Gates said, “Fine. What’s the name?”

“Lunar Eclipse,” the stranger said. “I like the sound of that too. You?”

Back in his seventh-floor office, Starbucks still in hand, Gates listened to the caller.

“Snorkeling’s great this time of year,” Cooper said. “You ought to come down and visit.”

“I don’t particularly like the Caribbean.” He pronounced Caribbean with the emphasis on the be.

“That’s odd,” Cooper said. “Then again you’re an odd one, aren’t you, Pete?”

“What do you want?”

“A favor.”

Gates felt a prickly sensation, his skin starting to sweat underneath the fabric of his suit. He took a sip of the coffee. He wanted to say, You’ve got some nerve, or something like that, but there was nothing like that he could say. Nothing that would get him anywhere.