He finished his dinner, put his tray table outside his door for collection, then turned to the New York Times, specifically to the Arts section, where he perused the schedule of the Metropolitan Opera. He had never had enough of the opera and the theater during his working days, and he intended to make up for it. He ordered tickets for half a dozen performances by phone, paying with a credit card, then turned to the book of Winston Churchill’s speeches he had been reading.

BOB KINNEY SAT in his first daily national security briefing with the president, the secretary of defense, the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff, the attorney general, the director of Central Intelligence and the national security advisor. The president heard reports from all of them, saving Kinney for last.

“Bob, what do you have for me today?” the president asked.

“Mr. President, following your instructions I have ordered a top-to-bottom survey of the Bureau’s security, and I expect to have written reports and recommendations from all the relevant people by the end of the month. As soon as I’ve had a chance to digest their reports, I’ll submit a written report to you outlining what steps I intend to take.”

“Excellent. Have you had an opportunity to look for housing yet?”

“The General Services Administration has put someone in touch, and my fiancee is screening them for me. I’ll let the final decision be hers anyway.”

“You’re a wise man, Bob. Have you made any personnel changes yet?”

“I’ve appointed Special Agent Kerry Smith to be my chief of staff, sir, but I intend to make other changes as part of a more sweeping revamping of the Bureau’s management. It will be some weeks before I’ll be ready to do that.”

“I understand. Well, that wraps it up for today. Thank you all for coming.”

As the group was shuffling out, Kinney stepped up to the president. “Mr. President, may I have a moment alone?”

“Of course, Bob.”

“And I’d like for the director of Central Intelligence to stay, as well.”

“Kate, hang on a minute, will you?” Lee said.

When the room had been cleared the president invited Bob and Kate Lee to sit down again. “Now, what is it, Bob?”

“Mr. President, I have to tell you that, at the time of my appointment, I inadvertently misinformed you about the disposition of the Theodore Fay case.”

“How so?”

“When I returned to the Bureau, after the press conference, I learned that evidence had surfaced, literally, indicating that Fay parachuted from the airplane and survived the explosion.”

The president grimaced. “And we’ve been telling the press that was resolved.”

“Yes, sir; I’m very sorry about that.”

“Well, if you didn’t have the information at the time, you couldn’t give it to me, could you? Tell me why you think Fay is alive.”

“There is incontrovertible physical evidence that the pilot’s door of the airplane was jettisoned prior to the explosion and that Fay made his way to a disused summer cottage, where he changed clothes, buried his parachute and stole a bicycle. He rode that to Kennebunk, where he ditched the bicycle and got a Greyhound bus to Boston. From there he got another bus to Atlantic City, New Jersey, where he disappeared. We have so far been unable to trace his movements from there.”

“Do you think he may still be in Atlantic City?” the president asked.

“I think it’s more likely that he made his way to a major city- New York and Philadelphia are easily reached from there, but he could have backtracked and gone anywhere.”

“I suppose I’ll have to make an announcement to the press,” Lee said.

“Sir, I’d rather you didn’t, if that’s possible.”

Kate chimed in. “Bob has a good point, Mr. President. It would be better if we didn’t announce to Fay that we’re still after him, and even if you made the announcement and Bob made Fay number one on the FBI’s most-wanted list, I doubt if that would be of much help. Fay is far too slick to get spotted by an ordinary citizen from a wanted poster.”

“I see your point,” the president said. “All right, I’ll wait until you catch him, and then I’ll say I knew all along Fay was alive.”

“Mr. President,” Kinney said, “I have to be absolutely frank with you. It’s very unlikely that we will catch Theodore Fay, unless he commits another murder.”

“Bob is right,” Kate said. “Fay is an extremely resourceful man, and he knows how to disappear.”

“Well,” Lee said, “I’m not going to sit around hoping he murders somebody else. We’ll keep this knowledge among the three of us and whoever else in both your agencies needs to know.” He paused for a moment. “And I think I’d better share it with the ranking members of both parties on the senate intelligence and judiciary committees.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kinney said, standing up.

“And thank you, Bob, for telling me about this.”

As he and Kate Lee walked out to their cars, she tugged at his sleeve. “How can we help, Bob?”

“I think the only thing you can do right now is to comb the Agency’s files again for any information about Fay that might be useful to us. I’ll assign Kerry Smith to go over what you find.”

“I’ll give the orders as soon as I’m back in my office,” Kate said.

They shook hands and went to their respective cars. Kinney left feeling a little relieved that the president had taken the news as well as he had.

HOLLY STOOD WITH A DOZEN other trainees in the smaller of the two gymnasiums at the Farm. An instructor with a clipboard walked into the room, counted the names on his clipboard, counted the trainees, then tossed the clipboard aside. Another sergeant, Holly figured, but this one a marine. He was fiftyish, her height, wiry and had a severe whitewall haircut. At his age, only an ex-marine would walk around with that. What was visible of his hair was black, except for a white streak over his forehead.

“Shut up,” he said, though everyone was already quiet. “You can call me Whitey, and when I talk, you listen.”

Holly looked up into the rafters and involuntarily sighed.

“Am I boring you?” Whitey asked.

Holly gazed at him but didn’t reply at once.

“No, sergeant,” she lied.

“I told you to call me Whitey.”

“No, Whitey.”

“You’re a smartass, aren’t you?”

“Possibly.”

He glared at her for a moment, then turned back to the group. “This is a fighting class,” he said. “It is not a self-defense class; it is a hurting class, a maiming class, a killing class. As far as the Agency is concerned, the best opponent is a disabled or dead opponent. Is that dear?”

“Yes, sir,” the class replied as one man, except for Holly, who replied, “Yes, Whitey.”

Whitey heard this and glared at her again. He walked over and stuck his face in hers. “You don’t want to call me ‘sir,” huh?“

“You asked me to call you Whitey,” Holly replied.

“What’s your name?”

“Harry One.”

He looked her up and down. “Yeah, ”Harry‘ is the perfect name for you.“

“Was that a reference to my sexual orientation, Whitey?” Holly asked. She tried not to sound annoyed, though she was annoyed. She had put up with that sort of thing in the Army for years.

“Take it that way, if you like.”

“I don’t like.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to demand an apology,” Holly said. “Right now.”

“Apology for what?”

“I don’t suppose you’ve read the manual we were given, Whitey, but I have. There is a clear prohibition in the manual against personal slurs, particularly of a sexual nature, and there is a prescribed procedure for dealing with them. Now, you can apologize, or I’ll subject you to that procedure.”

He was back in her face again. “You’d better be careful how you speak to your superiors in this place,” he said.