In the morning, a Company driver picked Fitzhugh up from the Mansfield Hotel on West Fourty-fourth and dropped him off at the Avenue of the Americas building by nine thirty. Once behind the desk, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. "John?”

“Yes, sir," said a flat voice.

"Can you go to Room 5 and give the treatment until I get down there? No more than an hour.”

“Face?"

"No, not the face.”

“Yes, sir."

He hung up, checked his e-mail, then connected to Nexcel, signing in with Grainger's username and password. One message from Sal, that occasional oracle in Homeland:

J Simmons has gone to DT HQ unexpectedly.

"Thank you," he said to the computer. The message might have been of use had it come before Simmons ambushed him here at "DT HQ" yesterday. He wondered if Sal was really earning his Christmas bonuses.

There was a stack of real mail on the desk, and among the interdepartmental memos he found a buff envelope, postmarked Denver, addressed to Grainger. Security had placed cleared stamps all over it, so he ripped it open. Inside was a brick-colored passport, issued by the Russian Federation.

With a fingernail, he opened it to find a recent photograph of Milo Weaver with his heavy, accusing eyes and long jowl, looking in some ways like a gulag survivor. But the name beside the picture was Mikhail Yevgenovich Vlastov.

"Oh, fuck me," he whispered.

He went to the door and pointed through the cubicles at one of the Travel Agents, using a finger to beckon him. Once the door was closed again, Fitzhugh snapped his fingers, as if the name were on the tip of his tongue, which it wasn't.

"Harold Lynch," the analyst said. He couldn't have been more than twenty-five; a sweat-heavy lock of blond hair curled over his smooth, high forehead.

"Right. Harry, listen. There's a new lead to follow. Milo Weaver as Russian mole."

The disbelief was all over Lynch's face, but Fitzhugh pressed the issue.

"Opportunities. Find when he had access to information, and, soon afterward or even simultaneously, access to the FSB. Line that up with known Russian intel. Take this." He handed over the passport and envelope. "Have someone run it through whatever we've got. I want to know who sent it, how tall they are, and what their favorite food is."

Lynch stared at the passport, overwhelmed by this sudden shift in gear.

"Get along, now."

No matter who sent it, the passport was an unexpected gift. Even before the interrogation had begun, Fitzhugh had been handed a serious weapon. Murder and treason-Weaver might talk his way out of one charge, but two?

He decided to share the good news with Janet Simmons. His secretary, a heavyset woman in pink, tracked down and dialed her number. On the second ring, he heard, "Simmons."

"You'll never guess what appeared today."

"I probably won't."

"Russian passport for Milo Weaver."

She paused, and in the background he heard the hum of an engine-she was driving. "What does that make him?" she said. "A dual citizen?"

He'd expected a little more joy from her. "It just might make him a double agent, Janet. It's not one of ours."

"Under his name?"

"No. Mikhail Yevgenovich Vlastov."

A pause. "Where'd it come from?"

"Anonymous. We're looking into that now."

"Thanks for telling me, Terence. Give Milo my best."

At ten thirty, Fitzhugh used his keycard in the elevator to access the nineteenth floor, where instead of cubicles there were corridors of windowless walls marked by pairs of doors. One led to a cell, the other to the control room for each cell, full of monitors and recording equipment. He entered the control room to cell five, carrying a plain gray folder.

Nate, a hard-drinking ex-agent with the stomach of a goat, sat crunching Ruffles in front of monitors where Milo Weaver, on a floor, naked, screamed from electric shocks delivered to his exposed body parts. The sound echoed sickly in the small room.

A small, thin man in a blood-spattered white smock did his work silently-that was John. One of the doormen held Weaver's shoulders down with rubber gloves, while the other doorman, the big black one, stood by a wall, wiping his mouth and staring.

"What the hell's he doing?" Fitzhugh asked.

Reaching for another potato chip, Nate said, "Just evacuated his breakfast. It's right there by his feet."

"Christ. Get him out of there."

"Now?"

"Yes, now!"

Nate slipped on a wireless headset, tapped on the keyboard, and said, "Lawrence."

The black man stiffened and put a finger to his ear.

"Get out. Now."

While Weaver screamed, Lawrence walked slowly to the door. Fitzhugh met him in the corridor and, despite the fact that the doorman was a head taller, shoved a stiff finger into his chest. "If I ever see that again, you'll be out of here. Got it?"

Lawrence nodded, eyes moist.

"Get back to the lobby and send up someone with balls."

Another nod, and the big man walked off to the elevators.

Nate had told John to prepare for his entrance, so when Fitzhugh opened the door, Milo Weaver was crouched, leaning against the wall, blood seeping from spots across his chest and legs and groin. The remaining doorman stood at attention by the opposite wall while John packed up his electrodes. Weaver began to cry.

"It's a shame," said Fitzhugh, arms crossed over his chest, tapping the folder against his elbow. "A whole career flushed down the toilet because of a sudden desire for vengeance. It doesn't make sense to me. It doesn't make sense here," he said, tapping his temple, "nor here"-his heart. He squatted so he was level with Weaver's red eyes and opened the folder. "This is what happens when Milo Weaver defends his dignity?" He snapped the folder around to reveal page-sized color photos of Tom Grainger, crumpled in front of his New Jersey house on Lake Hopatcong. Fitzhugh went through them one at a time for Milo's inspection. Panoramic shots, showing the position of the body-five yards from those concrete steps. Close-ups: the hole through the shoulder, the other through the forehead. Two soft dumdum bullets that widened after entry, taking out a massive chunk as they left, leaving a mutilated shell of Thomas Grainger.

Milo's crying intensified, and he lost his balance, falling to the floor.

"We've got a weeper," Fitzhugh observed, standing.

Everyone in that small white room waited. Milo took loud breaths until the tears were under control, wiped his wet eyes and runny nose, then worked himself into a hunched standing position.

"You're going to tell me everything," said Fitzhugh.

"I know," said Milo.

Across the East River, Special Agent Janet Simmons worked her way through slow Brooklyn traffic, stopping abruptly for pedestrians and children leaping across Seventh Avenue. She cursed each one of them. People were like that-they blundered through their little lives as if nothing would ever cross their paths. Nothing, not automobiles, crossfire, stalkers, or even the unknown machinations of the world's security services, who could easily confuse you with someone else and drag you to a cell, or simply put a misplaced bullet in your head.

Instinctively, she parked on Seventh, near where it crossed Garfield, so that she wouldn't be seen from the window.

She'd made a lot of noise with Terence Fitzhugh, but the truth was that she had no real jurisdictional authority concerning Milo Weaver. He'd killed Tom Grainger on American soil, but both were CIA employees, which left it to the Company's discretion.

Why, then, was she so insistent? Not even she knew for sure. The murder of Angela Yates-perhaps that was it. A successful woman who had made it so far in this most masculine of professions had been killed in her prime by the man Simmons had let go in Tennessee. Did that make her responsible for Yates's death? Maybe not. She felt responsible nonetheless.