Laramie listened, a student hearing her paper read before the class.

“As an analyst who’s done her homework on the region to which she’s assigned, you’ve added some educated suppositions. According to you, the ideological leanings of eight of the eleven members of China’s Standing Committee of the State Council-including the premier-make it likely, almost beyond a reasonable doubt, that the council as a whole would not, in today’s environment, plan or approve such an invasion. You postulate that the fundamentalist vice premier overseeing China’s military, General Deng Jiang, possibly in alliance with the intelligence chair, is planning either to win over the council and gain his comrades’ approval, or to conduct the invasion, as I believe you put it, ‘with or without the council’s authorization.’ Due to the supporting evidence of a regional military draft, you conclude that General Deng, at least, is confident the invasion will actually take place, and we should take measures under the assumption that it will.”

Laramie nodded one short nod.

“The question,” Rothgeb said, “is whether you should tell your deputy director, or whoever it is you report to these days, what he wants to hear, or whether you should tell him what you believe he needs to be told.”

Laramie shrugged. “Correct as usual, your majesty.”

“Well, obviously,” he said, “you should tell him what he wants to hear.”

“Come on.”

“Now don’t get all hot under the collar.”

“Did you or did you not just look at those files? The pictures, my notes-”

“I saw the photographs, I read your notes, and your analysis is excellent. Your report does not, however, conform to Agency protocol and is based almost entirely on speculation.”

“Speculation?”

“This could be something,” Rothgeb said, “or it could not be something. It probably is. But unless you’ve been looking at these satellite shots from under a rock, you know as well as I do the political climate in the nation’s capital in which you are-for the moment at least-gainfully employed.”

“Of course I’m aware-”

“Since the administration is in the process of publicly sanitizing our country’s relationship with the leaders of a nation you’ve now exposed as proactively hostile to our foreign policy on the issue of Taiwan, I shouldn’t need to tell you, Laramie, that you’re sitting on something that might just burn your ass.” Rothgeb drew out the last phrase, enjoying one of his brief forays into off-color language.

Laramie found that virtually everything Eddie Rothgeb said or did annoyed her.

“This is information the administration should have,” she said, “in order to determine appropriate foreign policy. Including which relationships the administration should be sanitizing.”

Rothgeb chuckled.

“You came out to see me today,” he said, “because you know what’s going to happen if you submit a version of the report that includes your speculative conclusions. You do it, and you know full well they’ll say you’ve submitted an inflammatory document displaying little more than bad political judgment. They’ll instruct you to revise your report.”

Laramie could feel it coming, the punch line of the professor’s lecture.

“However,” he said, “if you tell them what they want to hear, you’ll continue to remain a trusted aide to whoever it is that receives your report. With a little guidance and luck, such political savvy will lead you to a long and fruitful career at CIA.” He scratched a temple. “It’s a significant issue these days if you include editorial commentary in an official memorandum. You could still make your point without the editorial-say what you see and let them figure out what it means. Which they will.”

After a moment of nothing but the sickly buzz of the classroom’s fluorescent lighting, Laramie said, “That’s your advice?”

“I’d say it’s my definition of politics,” he said, “more so than my advice.”

Laramie felt a sensation of emptiness. It was not unfamiliar.

“You want to tell me,” Rothgeb said, “what it is you’re not telling me?”

Laramie would have smiled had she not been trying to remember whether Rothgeb had always irked her to this degree. She shrugged instead, and looked away.

“When did you submit it?” Rothgeb asked.

“Yesterday,” she said. “I submitted the report yesterday.”

Chuckling again, Rothgeb took the sandwich wrappers and the brown paper bags and put them into a wastepaper basket under the table. “In your bullheaded way,” he said, “you’ve done exactly what they hired you to do. Your boss, and his boss, and his boss will now know about the issue you’ve unearthed. After lambasting you, my guess is your superiors will either seek a second opinion on your intel, or, more likely, sit on it until the intel becomes more relevant to their own career advancement.”

“They can’t sit on this.”

“Oh, but they can, and will.”

“How?”

“That,” he said, “is how they’ve come to hold positions of influence in our nation’s capital. Or near to it, at any rate.”

“Isn’t your outlook a bit bleak?”

Rothgeb sighed. “You aren’t thinking practically. If you feel your discovery warrants action and you don’t get any from your superiors, you’ll simply need to get their career advancement lined up with your agenda. Or,” he said, “as typically works better in Washington, the converse.”

Laramie leaned forward in her seat. “You buried the lead. You’re recommending that I get them fired if they don’t act?”

“Correct.”

“That’s ambitious.” She shrugged. “Obvious point here, professor, but last time I checked, I work for them.”

“Laramie, you don’t need to be an intelligence analyst to understand to whom your bosses report. In fact, I believe we routinely cover that topic in the standard freshman political science course.”

In those classes, Laramie would always stay right with him, maybe keep a step ahead of his lecture outline. It took concentration, but she figured she ought to be able to handle him even better today.

“You’re saying they work for the president,” she said. “CIA being a part of the executive branch-”

“Nope,” he said. “Follow the money.”

“Oh. Congress. The Select Committee on Intelligence, for instance.”

“Correct.”

He stayed rooted in his seat at the table. Laramie knew Eddie was playing his fishing game; if you were too dense to tell him what he was about to teach you, he wanted to make you ask for the punch line. Out of practice and out of the mood, she declined the challenge, taking the bait like a freshman.

“I guess I’m still not following you,” she said.

“As you know, in addition to authorizing the salaries of your superiors, the congressional committees that hold intelligence oversight responsibilities also hold regular hearings in which your superiors report to them on various issues of significance.”

“Of course.”

“And believe it or not, there may well be a representative on such a committee who would share your opinion of the classified SATINT you’re currently parading around college campuses.”

He stood, reached down, and pushed Laramie’s manila folders across the table.

“You can spare me the next question,” he said. “The answer is, yes, I can probably get you a personal e-mail address or two belonging to members of such committees.”

Laramie remained in her seat for a minute, thinking through what he was recommending. It was not a low-risk scenario.

She stood, came over to the table, and returned the folders to her bag. They walked out of the room together; when they came into the hall, Laramie turned and faced him. A few long seconds passed, Laramie looking up into those piercing eyes, Rothgeb looking a little uncomfortable. Laramie didn’t make any move to turn away.

“I don’t like your car,” she said. “It isn’t sporty at all.”

He didn’t smile, but she could see the warmth in there behind the cool blue surface of his eyes.