"Where are we going? Back to Hawaii?"

"Someplace out in the 'burbs. That's all I know."

"How long's the drive?"

"Not long."

"Not much of a detail-oriented guy, are you?"

He snorted. "You sound like my wife."

"You got an iPod?"

"Yeah."

"You got any AC/DC?"

The fat man grinned.

THEYarrived at a small, one-story house on a narrow street lined by old oak trees and warped telephone poles. A late-model SUV was parked in the driveway. This was typical middle-class America, about as nondescript as you could get. The front lawns were beginning to turn green from their long winter brown, and the ticking of a sprinkler sounded in the distance. Two black boys, about seven or eight, were standing on the driveway and shooting each other with water rifles that resembled antitank guided missile launchers.

"This is it," said Hansen's well-dressed NSA taxi driver.

Hansen shook his head. "What am I doing here?"

The man rapped a knuckle on the GPS unit mounted on his windshield. "Look, bro. This is where they told me to bring you. You mind getting out? I'm sure they got some pizzas they want me to pick up."

Hansen sighed, grabbed his small carry-on bag, and climbed out of the car. As soon as he slammed the door, the driver floored it, leaving a trail of sarcasm and echoing AC/DC in his wake.

With a deepening frown, Hansen started up the driveway, breathing in the sweet scent of hamburgers grilling on a barbecue from the house next door. One of the boys looked at him, wriggled his brows, then shot Hansen in the face with his water rifle.

"Hey!" Hansen cried, blinking through the incoming fire.

"Tyler! James! I told you to stay in the backyard," came a voice from the front door.

Hansen met the gaze of a young black woman, about thirty-five, wearing expensive business attire and alternating her gaze between him and the smart phone in her hand.

He was about to open his mouth when she added, "Come on. They're waiting for you in the basement."

"Okay . . . " Hansen started for ward and asked, "Am I supposed to introduce myself?"

She made a face. "No one else did." She led him through the modestly decorated living room and toward a door adjacent to the kitchen. Hansen descended the narrow wooden staircase, reached the bottom, and turned to face the rest of his team, who were sitting in metal folding chairs arranged in a semicircle.

Standing before the group was a bald black man with a gray goatee. His muscular chest tented up a black silk shirt unbuttoned to reveal the requisite bling around his neck. His expensive pants looked cut by a tailor, and his matching shoes were shined to a rich gloss. He also sported a large gold class ring on his left pinky. He could easily be mistaken for a retired NBA star, and when he looked at Hansen, it was with an eerie fire in his eyes, the way you'd look at someone you planned to kill.

He spoke loudly, aggressively, establishing within the first sentence who was in charge: "Well, it's nice of you to join us, cowboy. There's a cooler over there with sodas. Grab yourself one and take a seat."

Hansen glanced incredulously at the others, who simply shrugged and returned his frown. They each had a soda and a seat, but Hansen wasn't quite ready for either. "Uh, excuse me, but who are you?"

"My name is Louis Moreau. Most people around 3E call me Marty. You'll call me Mr. Moreau. I'm your new technical operations manager, basically taking Grim's old job and kicking it up a notch."

"Where's Grim?"

"Couldn't make it."

"You got ID?"

Moreau began to chuckle. "Get your soda and sit down."

"I'm not thirsty."

Moreau crossed the room. Hansen hadn't quite realized that the man was a full head taller than him, and he seemed to grow wider as he drew near. "The only tough guy in the room is me. Mad Dog Moreau. Get over it. Get a chair."

Hansen rolled his eyes and complied. He flicked his glance to the pipes spanning the ceiling, the cinder-block walls, the laundry piled on the washer and dryer. "Nice basement. You got, like, a secret panel where you keep all the high-tech crap?"

"It's just a basement. And you can thank my sister for opening up her house to us. Now, I know you have a lot of questions. But most of them I won't answer, so just forget about those."

Valentina threw back her blond hair and snickered.

Ames raised his hand. "Uh, sir, I don't have a question, just a comment. You're an asshole."

Moreau widened his eyes in disbelief, narrowed them into a glower, then broke into a broad grin. "I like you, Brooklyn. I like that large attitude. Helps compensate, you know?"

"So that's how we get on your good side?" asked Gillespie, sipping her Coke. "We insult you?"

"You get on my good side, Ms. Longstocking, by doing your job."

"What did you call me?"

"Oh, I forgot--you guys aren't even thirty. When you're bored or drunk sometime, look up Pippi Longstocking. You'll have fun. Now I want to talk about Houston."

Everyone groaned.

"Sir?" began Noboru.

"You don'thave a question, do you, Bruce?"

"Uh, no, sir. Uh, my name is Nathan."

"No, you're Bruce Lee. Deal with it. Now, what do you want to say?"

"Um, nothing, sir."

Moreau moved over to Noboru and leaned down. "Speak."

"Sir, I just wanted to say that--"

"What, that you're honored to be here? That the United States of America has become your new home? That what happened in Houston wasn't your fault?"

Noboru thought for a moment. "That's right, sir."

"Good. Very good, Bruce. Now we can move on."

Valentina rose from her chair. "This is ridiculous. Are you going to conduct a meeting or entertain yourself by giving us nicknames? And God help you, if you give me one . . ."

Ames leaned forward and grinned at Hansen.

"Take a seat, Ms. Valentina, before I assign you a nickname you'll regret." Moreau faced the group. "So . . . excellent job in Houston."

Ames nearly spit out his soda. "Excuse me, sir, but this morning I went online to see how I'm supposed to file for unemployment--and you're telling me good job?"

"Leonard's dead. His data was destroyed in the house fire. We've confirmed that. In trying to kill him, the Chinese destroyed their prize."

"Who tipped them off?" asked Valentina.

"We're working on that."

Valentina shook her head in disgust. "I don't like leaks that I can't control."

"Me neither," said Ames. "I scanned the perimeter for heat signatures at least ten times. And suddenly I've got a shooter. What's up with that?"

Moreau took a deep breath. "If every operation went according to plan, none of us would be here. Third Echelon wouldn't exist. So 'what's up with that' is the unexpected. And we like that. It keeps us in business."

"We were hoping to retrieve the data and arrest Leonard for selling secrets to the Chinese," said Hansen. "We failed on both accounts. You call that a good job? Hell, I'd like to see what you call a screwup."

"The data didn't fall into the hands of the Chinese. That's all that matters right now. And Leonard's ties to Russia have also been severed. It began with Murdoch, Bratus, and Zhao, Mr. Hansen, and it may have ended with Leonard. Be proud of the work you've done so far."