“The most recent director and I disagreed about almost everything,” Kinney replied.

“Can you think of any instance when you felt able to give your director your full support for his actions?”

Kinney thought for a moment. “No, Mr. Chairman. I cannot.”

There was a roar of laughter from the audience in the big hearing room, and the chairman angrily gaveled them into silence. “Did you mean to be funny, Mr. Kinney?”

“No, sir, simply candid.”

“Did you think that your disloyalty to your director made you a better FBI man?”

“Mr. Chairman, my loyalty was to the quality of the investigations conducted by the Bureau. The director’s actions often infringed on that quality, and when that happened, I opposed him.”

“That’s your opinion, is it not?”

“It’s a fact, sir.”

The chairman, looking thoroughly unhappy, passed the questioning on to another senator.

“Mr. Kinney,” the senator began, “the president has proposed that the FBI be severed from the Justice Department and operate as an independent entity. Do you support this recommendation?”

“Yes, Senator, I do, unreservedly.”

“Why don’t you want the supervision of the attorney general?”

“I think we have a fine attorney general, Senator, but I believe the Bureau can operate more effectively if it is independent. In the past, some attorneys general have used the Bureau for political ends, and that is not the Bureau’s purpose.”

“Would you care to be specific about that?”

“No, sir, I would not. I’m not here to criticize former officeholders.”

“Except the former director.”

Kinney simply shrugged. “I answered the questions I was asked.”

“When you were with the New York City Police Department you worked in conjunction with the district attorney’s office, did you not? They prosecuted the cases you investigated. Is that so different from the way the Bureau has worked with the justice department in the past?”

“Yes, Senator, it is. The NYPD is an independent police organization, and it does not report to the district attorney or follow his orders.”

The questioning continued for another two hours. Kinney was, by turns, blunt and charming. Some committee members seemed miffed, but the audience loved him.

When the hearing ended, Kinney was surrounded by reporters and cameras and besieged with questions, which he declined to answer.

____________________

ON THE WAY BACK to the Hoover Building, Kinney called Kerry Smith. “Are you all set for tonight at the Met?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, we are,” Smith replied. “We’ve pulled everybody off everything else in order to saturate Lincoln Center with our people. If he shows, he’ll be ours.”

“Don’t fuck it up,” Kinney said, then hung up.

HOLLY STOOD IN FRONT of the Metropolitan Opera House, shivering in the cold and occasionally stamping her feet to keep them warm. Her eyes raked the giant plaza of Lincoln Center, searching for Hyman Baum. All she saw were CIA and FBI agents. She hoped to God they were not as visible to Teddy Fay as they were to her.

She stood near the door where she had met him on the previous Friday night and hoped he would arrive before she froze to death. She had spent the last four winters in Florida, and she had forgotten what cold weather was. New York was reminding her.

A young man approached her. “Looking for opera tickets, ma’am?”

“No, thanks. I already have mine.” She felt old, being called “ma’am.”

“Want to sell them?”

“No, thanks.” She watched him wade back into the crowd, then continued her search. Not even Teddy Fay could turn himself into a twenty-one-year-old black kid.

Gradually, the crowd thinned, as people moved into the opera house and found their seats. She could now see every person left in the plaza, and not one of them could possibly be Teddy Fay. Her phone vibrated. “Yes?”

“There’s an elderly man and woman sitting in seats H two and three,” Lance’s voice said. “Get inside and cover the entrance to that aisle.”

She showed the pass she had been issued to the ticket taker and ran toward the door, stepping inside just as an usher was closing it and the first strains of the overture to Le Nozze de Figaro rose. She could see two agents standing in the aisle next to row H, hands in their coat pockets, talking to a man in the first seat. Gesticulating, he got out of his seat and started up the aisle.

He was different, but he could be Teddy, she decided. Then, as the three men reached where she was standing, she decided he was not.

“I’m telling you, I traded my tickets for these seats,” the man was saying.

“Where were your original seats?” an agent asked.

“At the rear of the parterre level,” he said.

“Where’s that?”

“One level up.” He pointed and gave the agents the seat numbers.

Holly followed the two men, who were sprinting across the lobby for the stairs while one of them spoke into the microphone in his fist. They arrived at the entrance to the parterre level and brushed aside an usher who tried to stop them. They found the proper row and began wading down it, stepping on peoples’ toes, and a moment later they were back with a boy of about nineteen. They hustled him out the door.

“What the fuck is going on?” the boy asked, clearly scared.

“How did you get your seats?” an agent asked.

“I traded some in the dress circle for them,” he said.

A moment later the agents were running up more stairs, but Holly did not follow them. She called Lance. “We’ve been had; Teddy has traded seats at least twice. He’s probably not here.”

She could hear Lance speaking into his radio. “Everybody hold your positions and check out anybody who leaves by any exit.” He came back to his phone. “Holly, wait in the lobby and keep an eye out for anybody who might be Teddy.”

“Right,” she said, then started down the stairs.

TEDDY SAT in a stolen 1988 Oldsmobile, parked halfway down the block from the Middle Eastern restaurant. Omar Said’s car was double-parked out front, its engine running to keep the driver warm-Teddy’s eyes ran up and down the block, building by building, looking for surveillance. For the life of him, he could not spot anybody.

Suddenly, to his surprise, Said and a woman left the restaurant and got into his car. Apparently, urgent loins precluded dinner. Teddy waited until the Cadillac turned the corner, then drove to the end of the block and, just to throw off any undetected surveillance, turned in the opposite direction and drove around the block, before continuing. After all, he knew where they were going.

He got there in time to see the door to the brownstone closing behind them. He had already cased the building, top to bottom. The downstairs door had not even required lock picking, just a credit card. Said’s Cadillac was idling outside, and the driver had settled in for the duration. Teddy parked his stolen car in front of a fireplug and got out. No need to wipe anything down, since he had been wearing gloves all evening.

He trotted up the front steps of the building and quickly let himself in. The apartment was two floors up, and he listened to be sure they were not still in the hallway, then walked slowly and silently up the stairs.

He stood outside her apartment door and placed one end of a listening device of his own construction in an ear and the other, microphone end, on the door. The two pieces were connected by a wire. The first thing he heard was ice cubes striking glass; they were mixing drinks. There was a minimum of conversation, then they moved out of the living room. No doubt where they were headed.

Teddy waited three minutes, leaning against the wall next to the door, then produced a set of lock picks from a little wallet and in thirty seconds had the door open. He pulled down the knitted cap he was wearing, and it became a ski mask. He took his little Agency Keltec.380 from his overcoat pocket and screwed the silencer into the barrel. Then he stepped inside and very quietly closed the door behind him.