Handerling stopped to gaze up and down Madison Avenue. His windbreaker flexed as he raised a large umbrella over his head. Lash resisted the urge to stare at his face. It had been years since he’d last been on a surveillance, and he found his heart beating uncomfortably fast.

“That’s our man, there,” said Coven, nodding his head in the direction of a corner newsstand.

“The one with the red umbrella and the cell phone?”

“Yup. You wouldn’t believe how much easier cell phones have made surveillance. These days, it’s normal to see someone on the street talking into their hand. And these Nextel devices have walkie-talkie features built in, so we can broadcast to the entire group.”

“Other foot surveillance resources?”

“At the subway entrance and that bus stop, over there.”

“This is 709,” came a voice over the radio. “Suspect in motion. Looks like he’s going to hail a cab.”

Lash allowed himself a sidelong glance out the window. Handerling had moved toward the street with a long, loping gait. The man darted out an arm, index finger extended, and a cab nosed obediently to the curb.

Coven grabbed his radio. “This is 707. I’ve got the eye; 702, 705, we’re rolling.”

“Roger,” came a chorus of voices.

The driver swung the brown sedan out into traffic, a few vehicles behind the taxi.

“Suspect turning eastbound onto Fifty-seventh,” Coven said, still holding the radio in his lap.

“How many takeaway vehicles?” Lash asked.

“Two others. We’ll sit on him a while, take it a block at a time.”

The taxi moved slowly, fighting the rain and the crosstown traffic. One wheel splashed through a deep pothole, sending a brown spray over the sidewalk. At Lexington Avenue, it turned again, brusquely cutting off a minivan.

“Turning south on Lex,” Coven said. “Maintaining twenty-five miles per hour. I’m going to relinquish. Anybody?”

“This is 705,” came the voice. “I’ve got the eye.”

Lash glanced out the rear window and noticed a green SUV pulling up in the adjoining lane. Through the rain, he could make out Mauchly sitting in the front passenger seat.

Coven’s driver pressed on the gas, accelerating smoothly past the taxi and down Lexington Avenue. It was standard surveillance practice, Lash knew: have as many vehicles as possible involved so the suspect won’t think he’s being followed. In a few blocks, they’d make a turn, circle back, and join the rear of the line.

“Seven-oh-five, roger,” Coven glanced back. “So, Lash, what’s it like in the private sector?”

“I can’t get speeding tickets fixed anymore.”

Coven grinned, told the driver to turn onto Third Avenue. “Ever miss the Bureau?”

“Don’t miss the pay.”

“I hear that.”

“Unit 705,” the radio squawked. “Suspect turning east onto Forty-fourth. Vehicle stopping. I’m going to pass him, who’s picking up the eye?”

“This is 702. We’ve pulled over at the far corner. Maintaining visual contact.”

Coven’s driver pushed the sedan forward now, bullying his way through first one intersection, then another.

“Seven-oh-two,” came the voice. “Suspect has exited the vehicle. He’s entering a bar called Stringer’s.”

“Seven-oh-seven,” Coven replied. “Roger that. Keep a visual on the entrance. Seven-fourteen, we need you at Stringer’s. Forty-fourth between Lex and Third.”

“Roger.”

Minutes later, their sedan nosed into a no-parking zone on Forty-fourth. Lash glanced out the window. Judging by the garish awning and knots of twenty-somethings outside, Stringer’s was a pickup bar for young professionals.

“Here they come now,” Coven said.

Lash looked at an unfamiliar young couple coming down the street, holding hands and sharing an umbrella. “Is that foot surveillance?”

Coven nodded.

The couple disappeared inside the bar. A minute later, Coven’s cell phone rang.

“Seven-oh-seven,” he said.

Lash could hear distinctly the voice that came through the tiny speaker. “We’re at the bar. Suspect is at a rear table. He’s with a white female, heavyset, five foot six, wearing a white sweater and black jeans.”

“Roger. Stay in touch.” Coven put the phone aside, then looked into the rear of the sedan. His eye landed on Lash’s empty coffee cup.

“Another?” he asked. “I’m buying.”

Within half an hour, Lash was completely caught up on Bureau gossip: the Lothario who was playing around with the section chief’s wife; the annoying new red tape out of Washington; the weak leadership in the upper echelons; how unbelievably green the latest batch of new jacks were. Infrequently, reports came in from the agents watching Handerling from the bar.

Then came a moment when talk faltered, and Coven glanced at his driver. “Hey, Pete. How about getting us a couple more coffees?”

Lash watched the agent get out of the car and trot toward a deli down the block.

“Caught a break with this rain,” Coven said.

Lash nodded. He looked in the rearview mirror: on the far side of the street and half a block back, he could just make out the dim form of Mauchly’s SUV.

Coven was shifting restlessly in the front seat. “So tell me, Chris,” he said after a moment. “This place you’re moonlighting, Eden. What’s it like?”

“Pretty remarkable,” Lash replied guardedly. If Coven was getting curious about the tail, fishing for more information, he’d need to be careful what he said.

“I mean, can they really do it? Are they as good as everybody says?”

“They’ve got a great track record.”

Coven nodded slowly. “There’s this guy in my golf foursome, an orthodontist. Something of a Gloomy Gus, never married. You know the type. We were always trying to fix him up with somebody, but he hated the singles scene. It became a running joke on the links. Anyway, he went to Eden about a year ago. You wouldn’t know him now, he’s a different person. Married to a really nice woman. Great body, too. He doesn’t talk about it much, but any idiot can see how happy he is. Even the bastard’s golf game has improved.”

Lash listened without comment.

“Then there’s this chief I know, over in Operations. Harry Creamer, remember him? Anyway, his wife died in a car accident couple of years back. Good guy. Well, he’s remarried now. Never seen anybody happier. Rumor is, he went to Eden, too.”

Coven turned around again, and Lash could see a kind of desperate eagerness in his eyes. “I’ll be honest with you, Chris. Things aren’t so hot between me and Annette. We’ve been drifting apart ever since we learned she can’t have kids. So I look at my golf buddy, I look at Harry Creamer, and I start thinking twenty-five thousand bucks isn’t all that much money. Not in the long run, it isn’t. I mean, why live a half-assed life? It’s not like you get a second chance if you fuck it up the first time.” He paused a second. “I was wondering if you knew whether—”

The cell phone chirped. “Seven-oh-seven, this is unit 714, you read?”

Instantly, the professional veneer settled back over Coven. He reached for the phone. “This is 707, go ahead, 714.”

“Suspect’s having some kind of argument with the woman. They’re on their way out.”

“Roger, 707 out.”

At that moment, the door of Stringer’s opened and a woman emerged, walking quickly, shrugging into a raincoat as she went. Then Handerling pushed his way through the doors and went after her.

“All units, suspect on foot,” Coven said into his radio, cracking open the car window as he did so. The woman was shouting at Handerling over her shoulder: Lash made out the words “fucking low-life snoop” before the rest was drowned in the passing traffic.

Handerling put out a hand to stop her and she brushed it away. When he reached out again she turned, raising her arm to slap him. Handerling dodged the blow and pushed her roughly toward a shop front.

“Let’s take him,” Coven said.