The telephone rang several times, but the DCI ignored it. Finally, it stopped, and only the small sounds remained: the humming of the air vents, the soft intakes of their breathing, the beating of their hearts.

Hart sighed then, a long exhalation of breath. ―You don‘t want to hear this.‖

At last! Moira thought. ―Try me.‖

―What I did,‖ Hart said slowly, ―I did for the good of the company.‖

―Bullshit, you did it for yourself!‖

―You were never in any real danger,‖ Hart persevered, ―I made sure of that.‖

Instead of feeling better Moira was feeling more and more wronged. ―How could you have made sure of it?‖

―Moira, can‘t we leave it at that?‖

Moira was back in her attack position, leaning over the desk, resting on her white knuckles. ―End it,‖ she said. ―End it now.‖

―All right.‖ The DCI raked her fingers through her hair. ―I was sure you‘d be okay because Noah said he‘d take care of you.‖

―Oh.‖ Moira felt the floor open up beneath her. Dizziness forced her back to the chair, where she sat heavily, staring at nothing. ―Noah.‖ Then it hit her and she felt sick. ―It was all Noah‘s idea, wasn‘t it?‖

Hart nodded. ―I was his runner. I did his dirty work for him. I was required to be the one you hated when you came back so he could keep using you when he saw fit.‖

―Jesus God.‖ Moira stared down at her hands. ―He didn‘t trust me.‖

―Not for that mission.‖ Hart said it so softly that Moira had to lean forward to hear her. ―But for others, as you know perfectly well, he preferred you.‖

―No matter.‖ Moira felt numb from the inside out. ―What a shitty thing to do.‖

―Yes, it was.‖ Hart sat back down. ―In fact, it was the reason I left Black River.‖

Moira looked up, her eyes focusing on the woman who had been her archenemy for so long. She felt as if her mind had been stuffed with steel wool. ―I don‘t understand.‖

―I‘d done a lot of awful things while at Black River; you‘re the last person I have to explain that to. But this—what Noah had me do—‖ She shook her head. ―Afterward I was so ashamed of myself I couldn‘t bear to face you, so after the mission was completed I went to see you. I wanted to apologize—‖

―I wouldn‘t let you; I cursed you instead.‖

―I couldn‘t blame you. I wasn‘t angry at the hurtful things you said, who was more entitled? And yet it was a lie. I wanted to disobey orders, to tell you the truth. Instead, I quit. It was a cowardly act, really, because then I was certain I‘d never have to face you.‖

―And now here we are.‖ Moira felt drained, sick at heart. She‘d known Noah was amoral, she knew he was devious; he wouldn‘t have risen to his position at Black River otherwise. But she‘d never have thought him capable of fucking her over so thoroughly, of using her like a piece of meat.

―Here we are,‖ Hart agreed.

Moira felt a shudder run through her. ―Noah is the reason I‘m in this situation, the reason I‘m here without a place to go.‖

The DCI frowned. ―What do you mean? You have your own organization.‖

―It‘s been compromised, either by Noah or by the NSA.‖

―There‘s a big difference between Black River and the NSA.‖

Moira looked at Hart and realized she no longer knew how she felt about anyone or anything. How did one recover from a betrayal like this? All at once she was suffused with a terrible fury. If Noah had been in the room she would have grabbed the lamp off Veronica Hart‘s desk and swung it into the side of his face. But no, better he wasn‘t. She recalled a line from Les Liaisons Dangereuses, her favorite novel because it involved drawing room spies: Revenge is a dish best served cold. And in this case, she thought, in a perfectly clean kitchen. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly and completely.

―Not in this case,‖ she said. ―Jay Weston, my operative, was killed and I barely escaped being gunned down because Black River and the NSA are feathering the same nest, and whatever they‘ve hatched is so big they‘re willing to kill anyone who comes sniffing around.‖

Into the ensuing shocked silence, Hart said, ―I do hope you have proof of that allegation.‖

In response, Moira handed over the thumb drive she‘d gotten from Jay Weston‘s corpse. Ten minutes later the DCI looked up from her computer and said, ―Moira, so far as I can make out all you have is a motorcycle cop no one can find, and a thumb drive full of nonsense.‖

―Jay Weston didn‘t die in an automobile accident,‖ Moira said hotly, ―he was shot to death. And Steve Stevenson, the undersecretary for acquisition, technology and logistics at the DoD, confirmed that Jay was killed because he was on to something. He told me that ever since the news of the jetliner explosion hit the wires the atmosphere at DoD and the Pentagon has been shrouded in a toxic fog. Those were his words exactly.‖

Still staring at Moira, Hart picked up the phone and asked her assistant to connect her to Undersecretary Stevenson at the Department of Defense.

―Don‘t,‖ Moira said. ―He was scared shitless. I had to beg him to even meet with me, and he‘s a client.‖

―I‘m sorry,‖ the DCI said, ―but it‘s the only way.‖ She waited a moment, drumming her fingers on the desktop. Then her expression shifted. ―Yes, Undersecretary Stevenson, this is—Oh, I see. When is he expected back?‖ Her gaze returned to Moira. ―Surely you have to know when—Yes, I see. Never mind, I‘ll try again later. Thank you.‖

She replaced the receiver and her finger drumming began again.

―What happened?‖ Moira asked. ―Where‘s Stevenson?‖

―Apparently, no one knows. He left the office at eleven thirty-five this morning.‖

―That was to meet me.‖

―And as yet hasn‘t returned.‖

Moira dug out her phone, called Stevenson‘s cell, which went right to voice mail. ―He‘s not answering.‖ She put her phone away.

Hart stared hard at the screen of her computer terminal and mouthed the word Pinprickbardem, then returned her gaze to Moira. ―I think we‘d better find out what the hell has happened to the undersecretary.‖

Wayan, well pleased with his sales for the day, was in the enclosed rear of his stall, preparing the one or two pigs left unsold to take back to his farm, when the man appeared. He didn‘t hear him for all the shouted cacophony as the huge market began to close for the night.

―You‘re the pig man named Wayan.‖