Pendergast rose, his face betraying nothing. “Thank you, Beaufort, you’ve been most helpful.”

“Please consider what I just said. Think about your family history…” Beaufort’s voice trailed off.

Pendergast managed a cold smile. “Your further assistance is unnecessary. I wish you good day.”

New York City

LAURA HAYWARD CUT INTO THE RARE, juicy meat, separated it from the bone, and placed a forkful in her mouth. She closed her eyes. “Vinnie, it’s perfection.”

“I just threw it together, but thanks.” D’Agosta waved a dismissive hand, but he turned his attention to his own dinner to hide the pleased look he knew was settling over his face.

D’Agosta had always enjoyed cooking, in a casual, nondemanding bachelor way: meat loaf and barbecue and roast chicken, with the occasional Italian specialty of his grandmother’s thrown in. But since moving in with Laura Hayward, he’d become a much more serious chef. It had started out as a kind of guilt, a way to offset his living in her apartment while not being allowed to contribute to the rent. Later — when Hayward finally acquiesced about splitting the rent — his interest in cooking continued. Part of it was Hayward herself, no slouch when it came to preparing varied and interesting dishes. And part of it, no doubt, was the influence of Agent Pendergast’s unrelievedly gourmet tastes. But another part of it had to do with his relationship with Laura. There was something he found loving about the act and art of cooking, a way for him to express his feelings for her, something more meaningful than flowers or even jewelry. He’d branched out from southern Italy into French cuisine, which had taught him the basic techniques for many noble dishes as well as a fascination for the mother sauces and their countless variations. He’d grown interested in various regional American cuisines. Hayward tended to work longer hours than he did, allowing him time to unwind in the kitchen of an evening, cookbook propped open, working on some new dish, which he would present to her when she arrived, an offering. And the more he did it, the more accomplished he became: his knifework improved; dishes were assembled more quickly and more deftly; he grew increasingly confident in his own variations on master recipes. And so tonight, in which he’d served rack of lamb with a burgundy-pomegranate persillade, he could say, with more than a little truth, that it had been almost effortless.

For a few minutes they ate in silence, enjoying the time together. Then Hayward dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, took a sip of Pellegrino, and spoke with friendly irony. “So: what happened at the office today, dear?”

D’Agosta laughed. “Singleton’s launching yet another of his departmental morale campaigns.”

Hayward shook her head. “That Singleton. Always with the cop-psychology theory du jour.”

D’Agosta took a bite of épinards à la crème. “Corrie Swanson stopped by to see me. Again.”

“This is the third time she’s come to bug you.”

“At first she was a pain, but now we’ve sort of become friends. She keeps asking about Pendergast, what he’s up to, when he’s coming back.”

Hayward frowned. Almost any mention of Pendergast, it seemed, was sufficient to rub her the wrong way, even after their informal partnership earlier that year. “What do you tell her?”

“The truth. That I wish I knew myself.”

“You haven’t heard anything more from him?”

“Not since that call from Edinburgh. When he said he didn’t want my help.”

“Pendergast scares me,” said Hayward. “You know, he gives the impression of being in icy control. But underneath… he’s like a maniac.”

“A maniac who solves cases.”

“Vinnie, a case isn’t exactly solved if the suspect ends up dead. When was the last time Pendergast actually took a case to trial? And now this business about his wife being alive—”

D’Agosta laid down his fork, his appetite gone. “I’d rather you didn’t talk that way about Pendergast. Even if—”

“Even if I’m right?”

D’Agosta didn’t respond. She had touched a nerve; never had he been so worried about his friend.

There was a moment of silence. And then — with some surprise — D’Agosta felt Hayward’s hand close over his.

“I love your loyalty,” she said. “And your integrity. I want you to know I’ve come to respect Pendergast more than I used to, even if I abhor his methods. But you know what? He’s right to shut you out of this one. That man is poison to a career in law enforcement. Your career. So I’m glad you’re following his advice and leaving well enough alone.” She smiled, squeezed his hand. “Now come and help me wash up.”

Fort Meade, Maryland

ALOYSIUS PENDERGAST STROLLED INTO THE LOBBY of an unremarkable building on the campus of the National Security Agency. He checked his weapon and shield with a waiting soldier, walked through a metal detector, stepped up to the reception desk. “The name is Pendergast. I have an appointment to see General Galusha at ten thirty.”

“Just a moment.” The secretary made a call, then filled out a temporary ID badge. She nodded and another soldier with a sidearm came over.

“Follow me, sir.”

Pinning the ID to the breast pocket of his jacket, Pendergast followed the soldier to a bank of elevators, where they descended a number of levels. The doors opened into a bleak maze of cinder-block corridors that eventually brought them to a nondescript door marked only GEN. GALUSHA.

The guard knocked politely and a voice within said, “Enter.”

The guard opened the door and Pendergast went in, the guard closing the door after him, prepared to wait outside until the appointment was over.

Galusha was a neat, soldierly looking man in casual military fatigues, the single black star Velcroed to his chest patch the only evidence of rank. “Please sit down,” he said. His demeanor was cool.

Pendergast seated himself.

“I have to tell you up front, Agent Pendergast, that I can’t respond to your request until you and your FBI superiors go through the usual channels. And I don’t see how, exactly, I could be of help to you in any case.”

For a moment, Pendergast did not respond. Then he cleared his throat. “As one of the, ah, gatekeepers of M-LOGOS, you could be a great deal of help to me, General.”

Galusha went very still. “And just what do you know of M-LOGOS, Agent Pendergast… assuming such a thing exists?”

“I know quite a bit about it. For example, I know that it is the most powerful computer yet built by humankind — and that it is located in a hardened bunker beneath this building. I know that it is a massively parallel processing system, running a special AI known as Stutter-Logic, and that it has been designed for a single purpose: to data-mine information on potential threats to national security. The threats could be of any kind: terrorism, industrial espionage, domestic hate group activity, market manipulation, tax evasion, even the emergence of pandemics.”

He crossed one leg delicately over the other. “In pursuit of this objective, M-LOGOS maintains a database containing all kinds of information: from cell phone records and e-mails to the tracking of highway tolls, medical and legal records, social networking sites, and university research databases. The database is said to contain names and information on virtually one hundred percent of all individuals within U.S. borders, all cross-referenced and cross-linked. I don’t know what the percentage is for individuals outside America, but I think it’s safe to say that M-LOGOS possesses all the information that exists in digital form about most human beings in the industrialized world.”

Throughout this, the general had remained silent and motionless. Now he spoke. “That was quite a little speech, Agent Pendergast. And just how have you come by such information?”