“I hold a field-grade commission in the reserves of a branch of the United States military,” Holly said. “What’s your rank, Whitey?”

“I’ll show you what my rank is,” Whitey said. He turned, walked two paces away, then faced her, his hands at his sides. “Come over here and hit me in the face,” he said.

Holly walked over and stood loosely and unthreateningly before him. “How hard, Whitey?”

“Just as hard as you can, Harry One.”

She knew he expected her to back down. Holly didn’t hesitate; she shot a straight left at the middle of his face and felt the satisfying crunch of cartilage. Whitey sat down hard on the mat, blood gushing from his nose, then he was on his feet and coming at her when somebody stepped between them.

“Hold it, Whitey!” the man said. He was in his late fifties, slim and dressed in khaki trousers and a polo shirt. He turned to Holly. “Why did you do that?”

“My instructor instructed me to hit him as hard as I could,” she replied. “I’m afraid I partly disobeyed.” She looked at Whitey, who was holding a bloody towel to his face. “I hit him, but not as hard as I could.”

Whitey started to move toward her, but the man put a hand on his chest and shoved him backward. “Go to the infirmary and get that fixed,” he said.

Whitey glared at Holly again, then turned on his heel and marched out of the gym.

The man turned back to Holly. “What’s your name?”

“Harry One,” she replied.

The man looked at the group. “This class is dismissed until same time tomorrow.”

The group left, but the man crooked a finger at Holly. “You stay.”

When everyone had left the gym, and he had watched them do so, he turned back to Holly. “What did he say to provoke you?”

“He insinuated that I was a lesbian.”

“Nobody here cares if you’re a lesbian,” the man said.

“Whitey does,” she replied. “He doesn’t like lesbians.”

“No, I guess he doesn’t. Why did that make you so angry?”

“I did twenty years in the Army, and I heard that sort of thing a little too often.”

The man nodded. “I apologize, on behalf of the staff here.”

“Thank you,” Holly said. “And, just for the record, I’m not a lesbian.”

“I never thought you were. Your group will have a new instructor tomorrow, and you won’t see Whitey here again.”

“I didn’t want to get the man fired.”

“Call it the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

Holly nodded.

“A word of advice: if you should ever encounter Whitey again outside this establishment, be very careful. He’s good at what he does, and he likes doing it a little too much.”

“I’ll remember that,” Holly replied.

“Go get some lunch,” the man said, and he turned and walked away from her and out a door.

Holly went to get some lunch.

LANCE CABOT WAS HAVING LUNCH in the Farm’s dining room, in the main house, when a woman approached and handed him an envelope. “Thank you,” he said to her retreating back. He put down his fork and opened the envelope. Inside was a summons to a meeting of the executive committee at two p.m. He glanced at his watch; he still had twenty minutes, so he ordered dessert and coffee.

THE EXECUTIVE COMMITEE met in the paneled conference room two floors under the main house. Lance arrived at five minutes before the appointed hour and found no one in the room. He took a seat, rested his head against the back of the high-backed chair and closed his eyes. At one minute before two, half a dozen people filed into the room, among them the director of training, who was the on-site executive officer in charge of the Farm; the director of curriculum, who planned the courses and chose the instructors; and, to his surprise, the deputy director of Central Intelligence for Operations, Hugh English, who was either the number two or the number three man at the Agency, depending on whom you asked.

English nodded at Lance, and Lance nodded back. He and English had never been particularly fond of each other.

“Good afternoon,” said the director of training, Tom Harding, who was tall, slim and in his late fifties. “We had an incident this morning, and Jim Willis has called into question whether one of our trainees should remain at the Farm.” Willis was the director of curriculum, a short, thick man with a bald head and a perpetual scowl.

Since Lance had no overall duties at the Farm, he realized that Harding must be talking about one of his trainees. He sat up and became alert.

“Jim,” Harding said, “why don’t you tell us about it?”

“It’s the trainee Harry One,” Willis said. “I believe her to be unsuited to be in this program.”

Lance leaned forward. “Willis, I would be very interested to know specifically why you consider her unsuitable.”

Willis shrugged. “Background, experience, temperament.” He paused for effect. “And she attacked one of my instructors this morning.”

That caused a stir in the room, though no one said anything.

“I won’t put up with that from any trainee,” Willis said.

“Circumstances?” Lance asked.

“The circumstances don’t matter,” Willis said. “It’s a rule, and a hard and fast one.”

“All right, then, Jim,” Lance said, “You mentioned her background, experience, and temperament. Tell us what you find deficient in those areas.”

“She was an army MP, for Christ’s sake,” Willis said, his voice full of scorn. “The lowest kind of cop, in my opinion.”

“She commanded a company of MPs and finished as a deputy regimental commander,” Lance said. “She excelled at everything she did in the army, and she went through two very tough FBI courses at Quantico. Excelled in those, too.”

“Then she was a small-town cop,” Willis said, as if Lance had not spoken. “Traffic stops, that sort of thing.”

“She was chief of a force of three dozen officers and, on two occasions, broke cases the FBI said were of national importance.”

“That’s open to question,” Willis said.

“And temperament?” Lance asked. “What flaws have you detected in her temperament?”

“She doesn’t know how to follow orders,” Willis said. “Then there’s that fucking dog; she won’t go anywhere without it. It’s disruptive.”

Lance sat back. “She got through twenty years as a regular army officer with outstanding fitness reports and with no apparent problem following orders. And I wasn’t aware the dog was fucking anybody,” he drawled.

Laughs were stifled around the table.

“Then there was the incident of this morning.”

“Tell us about that, Jim,” Lance said.

Harding spoke up. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.

“Why not?” Willis demanded.

“Because I was there,” Harding said. “And because we have the incident on videotape.”

“We do?” Willis asked, nonplussed.

“We do.” Harding picked up a remote control. “I’ve had some adjustments made in the lighting, and the audio has been enhanced.” He started the tape.

Lance watched the incident, which ran little more than a minute. Every word was crisply reproduced. When Holly made contact with her instructor’s nose, there was a collective groan of sympathy around the table.

Harding looked at Lance. “She’s yours, Lance; defend her.”

“Happy to,” Lance replied, resting his elbows on the table.

“She’s an army brat; her father has a distinguished record of service in war and peace; she enlisted on graduation from high school and got her degree while in the service. She was promoted quickly, for a woman in the army, holding increasingly responsible posts.”

“She accused her superior of attempted rape,” Willis said. “It’s all in the record.”

“Not quite all of it,” Lance said. “The record doesn’t mention that the charges were true. I investigated them thoroughly, and it’s a disgrace that the man’s buddies acquitted him in the court-martial. He resigned from the service less than six months later.”