“Her name is Sally McEwen, and she knows Kiev very well,” said Reid. “She was stationed there for years. She speaks the language like a native, and I suspect she’ll be more than willing to come back to work for you. But you don’t have to decide until you meet her.”

“Can I get her personnel file?” Danny asked.

“I’d rather you drew your own conclusions once you meet her. She’s the sort of officer you really have to meet in person. She is the right choice, Danny. I’m positive. But of course it’s up to you.”

“All right,” he said. “How do I get in touch with her?”

“Ah, that is the problem,” said Reid. “At the moment, she’s not reachable by phone. And obviously we’re not going to trust an e-mail or anything that’s not encrypted. I’m afraid you’ll have to contact her in person. She shouldn’t be hard to find. I’ll give you her address.”

Sally McEwen lived in a small hamlet just outside the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge in southern Georgia. The hamlet consisted of a few houses, a church, a restaurant that served only breakfast, and a small shop that proclaimed itself a Notions Store. All but the last were located on the old county highway, which had been bypassed in favor of a straighter route some eighty years before. From the size of its potholes, Danny wouldn’t have been surprised if that was the last time it had been paved as well.

The Notions Shop sat on the hamlet’s lone side street, a narrow, muddy street that dead-ended in a thicket of punk weeds and a murky pond after twenty yards. There were no numbers on the building, but since it was the only building on James Road, Danny guessed it had to be 19—McEwen’s address. Except for the large sign along the roof that read NOTIONS in five-foot letters, it looked like a small ranch house. There was no driveway, or lawn for that matter—judging from the tracks, cars pulled into the muck between the road and house.

“What do you think happened to one through eighteen?” asked Hera, who’d come down with him.

“Probably sank into the swamp,” said Danny.

Danny maneuvered the car into a three-point turn and slid the car into the most solid spot he could find.

“Cripes, Colonel—are you sure the car’s not going to sink? All I see here is mud,” said Hera, opening the door.

“Get out on my side if you want,” said Danny. “Bag the colonel stuff for now, all right?”

“Aye aye, skipper.”

A dog began barking as Danny got out of the car. A small patch of bricks marked a stoop at the front door. He went to the door, then rang the bell.

“It’s a store—you can go right in,” said Hera behind him.

“It’s polite to ring the bell.”

“It’s a store,” she said, reaching for the screen door.

The barking increased in intensity, then suddenly changed to a howling cry.

“Hush now, Brat. Hush now,” yelled a woman in her early seventies as she opened the door.

She was short—perhaps five-two—and wore an oversized cotton sweater over a simple black skirt. Her shoulder-length hair was pulled back into a knot behind her head. She had the look of a slightly genteel lady who had fallen on more difficult times and had to support herself by muscle and ingenuity.

“Come on in, come on in, don’t mind the dog,” she said. “He gets lonely sometimes and wants to play.”

Danny stepped inside. The front room was crowded with tables featuring an assortment of items. Everything from handmade tobacco pipes to an old mechanics tool set was on sale, crowded next to each other in a mishmash. Most had small tags with handwritten figures. A few had two or three, each price different.

The room extended to the left, then to the back of the house in an el shape. The leg of the el contained an assortment of different paintings, watercolors and acrylic landscapes. Directly ahead of them was a small kitchen.

“Are you looking for anything particular?” asked the woman, her voice sweet with the old South. “We have many fine items for sale.”

“I wasn’t actually looking to buy anything,” said Danny.

“Well I’m sorry, suh, but the kitchen is closed today,” said the woman. A slight edge crept into her voice. “If you’re lookin’ for any liquid refreshment, I’m afraid you’ll have to move on.”

“I’m looking for a Sally McEwen.”

“Is that so?” answered the woman.

“You know her?”

“I might. Don’t touch any of those paintings, girl,” added the woman sharply. “Unless you’re fixin’ to buy one of ’em.”

“Sor-ry,” said Hera sarcastically.

“If you could tell me where to find Ms. McEwen, I’d be much obliged,” said Danny, borrowing one of his uncle’s South Carolina mannerisms and his accent.

“And if I did, who would be going to call on her?” asked the woman.

“Well, that would be me.”

“And you’re with what government agency?” the woman demanded.

“Well, uh, the Air Force.”

“The Air Force? Air Force? Not the Treasury?”

“Treasury?”

“I told you not to touch,” said the old woman, darting past Danny to Hera.

She was quick for an old bat, thought Danny. He followed her around the room to Hera, who was standing in front of a painting of a city.

“This is a very nice painting,” said Hera, who was holding the painting in her hands.

“Flattery ain’t gonna warm the skillet today, hon,” said the old woman. “You’re interested in buying, then you can put your paws on it. Otherwise, put it back.”

“How much?”

“For you?” The woman looked at Danny and then back at Hera. “Not for sale. I wouldn’t take money off a group of liars like yourselves. Pretending to be from the Air Force.”

“I’m not with the Air Force,” said Hera.

“Well, at least one of you values the truth.” She took the painting. “But I’m still not selling you the painting.”

“I was told that Ms. McEwen lived here,” said Danny. “I’d like to talk to her.”

“Well, you can’t. Who told you she lived here anyway?”

“Friend of hers named Jonathon Reid.”

The woman frowned, then put the painting back on its easel. She walked back to the front of the room, looking over the display of items.

“Did you hear me?” said Danny.

“Damn straight I heard you. Who the hell are you? Really?”

“I’m Danny Freah. I want to talk to Ms. McEwen.”

“Why?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. It’s kind of a personal thing. About a job.”

“A job?” The woman laughed.

“You’re her mother, right?” said Hera. “Or grandmother?”

“Whose mother, darlin’?” said the woman, laying her accent on thick.

“Listen, I’m sorry to bother you,” said Danny. He reached into his pocket and took out a business card. It had his name and rank, along with a generic Washington-area phone number that could not be traced. He took a pen out and wrote down his personal cell number. “If you could tell Ms. McEwen to give me a call, I’d appreciate it. Either number. My cell’s quicker. She could call or text me.”

“She don’t put much store in texting,” said the woman, taking the card. “And she don’t phone.”

“Whatever,” said Danny.

He reached for the door. The dog, which was somewhere downstairs, started barking again.

“I told you shut your trap, Brat,” yelled the woman.

She reached over and closed the door.

“I’m Sally McEwen, Colonel Freah.”

“No offense, but I’m afraid there must be a misunderstanding somewhere,” said Danny. “I, uh—I’m looking for somebody—”

“A lot younger,” said Hera.

“If Jonathon Reid sent you here, you’re looking for me,” she said. “He just neglected to give you all the details. Which is pretty much par for the course.”

Sally McEwen had worked in various jobs for the State Department and CIA for more than forty years before being eased out by the past administration.

Eased as in pushed, and none too gently. But she had not retired. She damn well was not going to retire, and in fact went to great lengths to keep her classified clearance in order. She was officially on leave.