“You’re saying Blackthorne initiated missions without being hired by a client.”

“That’s right. Isn’t that what I just said?”

“I’m just being clear for the recording. You’re saying Blackthorne became a vigilante organization disguised as a legitimate contractor.” Blackmon didn’t respond, so he went on. “Did you participate?”

“I can tell you right now, a lot of the things we were doing, they were things that needed to be done. People who needed to be dead. A Syrian gun runner selling weapons used against our troops. An Afghan war lord who sells drugs and on the side buys little boys to fondle and rape. A Palestinian telling a bunch of kids they’ve been chosen by Allah to have the great honor of strapping on some C4 and blowing themselves up.”

Blackmon had to stop and take a rest here. I pictured him walking away from Lyle, trying to gather himself, and then coming back.

“The world is better off without these people, and if we had more of that kind of clear thinking in government, we wouldn’t have half the problems we have today.”

“You don’t consider it murder?”

“It was murder. I am a murderer. But it was murder that needed to be done.”

I didn’t know if the long pause here meant Lyle was taking notes or trying to form a question. “If you believe in what he’s doing, why are you talking to me?”

“Because the more we did, the more Cy wanted to do. He wanted more influence. He started taking money under the table from donors with foreign business interests, and those interests had to be protected. There were certain countries and governments that were more favorable to what we were doing, and their interests had to be considered. The decisions got more complicated, and pretty soon it wasn’t about right and wrong.” There was a real sense of loss in Blackmon’s voice. Whether it was for his friend’s loss of purpose or because he would miss going out and killing people once the article was published, it was hard to say. “Cy had created the thing he hated most.”

“Thorne created his own politically driven bureaucracy.”

Blackmon must have nodded, because Lyle told him he had to speak for the tape.

“That’s what happened. I was ready to bail, but then nine-eleven happened.” The silence that followed went on so long I checked to see if we’d come to the end of the tape. We hadn’t, and eventually Blackmon began again. “Watching those towers fall…it did something to him.”

“It did something to a lot of us.”

“Cy felt responsible.”

“Why?”

“Because he saw it coming, and he wasn’t able to convince anyone. Because he felt like part of the failure, part of the useless and fucked-up government that had let things get to that point. He started taking a lot of black-bag jobs. Covert stuff. Illegal.”

“Like what?”

“Political assassinations, kidnappings, torture-various other forms of violent persuasion aimed at targets of his choosing. Encouraging coups, training and arming insurgents, passing along classified information to where it’s most needed.”

“Where does he get access to classified intelligence?”

“You have to remember the core of the company was all ex-military, ex-CIA or DIA or NSA. We all had high-level clearance, and we all have friends who still do. There are a lot of people inside the intelligence community who believe the U.S. intelligence machine is inadequate to the job of defending the country.”

“You have moles?”

“We get help here and there. Don’t ask me for names. I’m not compromising those people. They’re trying to do right. Most of us are trying to do right. But the jobs got bigger and riskier and harder to manage, and civilians started getting in the way. Cy’s view is that everyone is a soldier in this war.”

“Much like the radical Muslim point of view.”

“That’s what I keep telling him. ‘Cy, you’re no different from the people we’re hunting.’ He doesn’t like to hear that. He considers himself a patriot, the country’s last best chance. The hell of it is, he might be right. But when you start killing citizens, that’s when I get off the train.”

“What would he do if he knew you were talking to me?”

“Kill me.”

The little recording machine turned itself off as the tape ended. I’d heard enough. If Thorne would have been willing to kill his partner over what was on that tape, he certainly must have killed Lyle’s son, and there was no doubt he would kill Kraft.

I found Kraft’s beeper number and called it. I figured I would beep him every thirty minutes until he called me back. When he did, I would tell him I had something to trade for Vladi’s computer. Then I called Bo. When he answered, I didn’t even bother with hello.

“I need to see Drazen,” I said. “I need you to hook me up.”

“Why?”

“I need a new deal.”

DRAZEN TISHCHENKO WAS SEATED AT A TABLE IN THE back, a dark presence in the brightly lit fast-food emporium that was Wendy’s. On his table were all the classic Wendy’s accoutrements: orange tray, white plastic silverware, yellow paper napkins. He also had an impressive pile of Saltine packets to go with the chili he was scooping from a cardboard cup.

The way he held his cup offered a good look at the tattoos on his right hand. The biggest one, a black skull resting in a bed of leaves, was on the back of his hand. Elaborate symbols adorned the base of every finger. The one on his pinkie was a swastika. Just below each fingernail was a Cyrillic letter.

While I stared at his artwork, he stared up at me with those eyes, still as dead as the tattooed skull’s. I didn’t know how to greet him. I didn’t know whether to sit. Last time, I had counted on Bo for all my etiquette cues, but Bo wasn’t here this time, much to his chagrin. I’d had to work hard to convince him it was a good idea to meet with Drazen alone. As I stood in front of the man himself, I wasn’t sure it had been the best strategy. I felt as if I had a swarm of wasps in my gut.

“Sit.”

I pulled out the chair across from him and slid in.

“What do you want?” He’d turned back to his chili and was scraping the last of it from the bottom of the cup.

“I have news to report.”

He put the cup down and wiped his mouth with one of the yellow napkins. “I like that the food at Wendy’s in Denver is the same as the food at Wendy’s in Boston. I don’t like all American ideas, but that one was a good one.”

“Roger Fratello is dead.”

He balled up the soiled napkin and dropped it into the cup. “That would be convenient for you.”

“Not especially. He died in a hijacking four years ago.”

“What kind of hijacking?”

“Airplane. It was a Salanna Air flight from Paris to Johannesburg. He was traveling under the alias Gilbert Bernays.” I had brought props to bolster my case-printouts of articles I’d been carrying around in my files. I slipped them across the table to him. Without taking his eyes from mine, he put his hand on them and pushed them right back. “Can you show me his bones?”

“There wasn’t that much of him left. He burned to death when the Belgians stormed the plane. Nine hostages died. He was one of them.”

“Again, that is all very handy for you.”

“I’m not making this up. The FBI has come to the same conclusion. They’ve closed the case on Walter Herald’s murder. That should be good news for you.”

He was so quick I had no time to cover up when he reached across the table and slapped me hard across the face. The force snapped my head sideways. It stung enough to make my eyes tear. I covered my cheek. The skin felt hot where he’d made contact.

The only other patrons in the place were a few tables over. Two teenage boys wearing baggy jeans and a girl with oily eyelids and a spaghetti-strap top. They were looking at me with keen disinterest, as if the whole scene came straight out of a video game.