The truth, three lies, and some omissions. That was all Milo knew. The rest, Primakov had promised, would be taken care of. During that too-long week in Albuquerque, the old man had shared very little. Instead, he'd asked questions, just as Terence Fitzhugh was now doing. The story, from its beginning in Tennessee to its bloody end in New Jersey. He'd told it so often in New Mexico that he knew it better than his own life story. "Give me details," Primakov had insisted.

But he hadn't just asked about the story; he'd asked things Milo was not allowed to answer. Treasonable things. "You want my help, don't you?" So: the hierarchy of the Department of Tourism, the numbers of Tourists, the existence of Sal and his method of contact, the relationship between Homeland and the Company, and what the Company knew and didn't know about Yevgeny Primakov himself, which was very little.

Only after five days of this had the old man finally said, "I've got it now. Don't worry about a thing. Go in and tell them the truth. You will lie three times, and leave a few things out. I'll take care of the rest." What "the rest" consisted of was a mystery.

Did his faith falter? Certainly it did. It stumbled when he realized that he was being given the black hole treatment, and it nearly died when, that morning, John entered Room 5 with his briefcase full of terrible tricks. "Hello, John," Milo had said, but John wasn't such an amateur that he would be tricked into saying a thing. He placed his case on the floor, opened it to reveal the battery pack and wires and electrodes, and asked the two guards to please hold Milo's naked body down.

In truth, Milo's faith disappeared completely when the electric shocks were applied. They scrambled his nerves and his brain, so that he could feel no faith in anything outside that room. He could hear nothing when his body arched and shook on the cold floor. In the pauses between these sessions, he had wanted to scream the truth at them-no, he hadn't killed Grainger-that had been Lie Number One. But they never asked him a thing. The pauses were only for John to check Milo's blood pressure and recharge the machine.

The only thing that threatened to rekindle his faith made no sense to him. It was Lawrence, holding his ankles. As the pulses surged through his body, Lawrence let go of his feet and turned away, then began to vomit. John stopped his work. "Are you okay?"

"I-" Lawrence began, then climbed to his feet, wiping his watery eyes. It hit him again, and he leaned against the wall, emptying his stomach.

John, unconcerned, reapplied the electrodes to Milo's nipples. Despite the pain, he felt a wash of relief, as if Lawrence's disgust might soon be shared by them all. He was wrong. Then Fitzhugh came in and showed him the photographs..

"You killed Grainger."

"Yes."

"Who else did you kill?”

“A Tourist. Tripplehorn."

"When did you kill Grainger? Before you killed the Tourist?"

"Before. No, after."

"Then?"

Milo coughed. "I took a walk into the woods.”

“And then?"

"I was sick. Then I flew to Texas.”

“Under Dolan?"

He nodded, now back on the sure ground of the awful truth: "I tried to get my wife and daughter to disappear with me," he said, telling Fitzhugh things he already knew. "They wouldn't-at least, Tina refused." He straightened with difficulty and looked at Fitzhugh. "I had no family, no job, and both the Company and Homeland were looking for me."

"A week followed," Fitzhugh said. "You disappeared."

"Albuquerque."

"What did you do in Albuquerque?”

“I drank. A lot. I drank until I realized it couldn't go on.”

“Lots of people live their whole lives drunk. What makes you so special?"

"I don't want to live on the lam. Someday," he said, then stopped and began again. "I want to return to my family someday. If they'll have me. And the only way to make this happen was to turn myself in. Mercy of the court, and all that."

"Pretty far-fetched."

Milo didn't dispute this.

"That week in Albuquerque. Where did you stay?”

“The Red Roof Inn.”

“Who with?"

"I was alone." Lie Number Two.

"Who'd you talk to? A week is a long time."

"Some waitresses-from Applebee's and Chili's. A bartender. But not about anything important." He paused. "I think I scared them."

They stared at each other, one clothed, one naked, and Fitzhugh finally said, "We're going to go through the whole thing, Milo. Sometimes it'll feel like a test of your memory, but it's not. It's a test of your truth." He snapped his fingers close to Milo's face. "You with me?"

Milo nodded, and the movement pained him.

"Two chairs," Fitzhugh said to no one in particular. The remaining doorman took it to be his order, and left. "John, keep yourself available."

John nodded curtly, lifted his case, and left looking like a blood-spattered encyclopedia salesman just after a sale.

The doorman returned with aluminum chairs and helped Weaver into one. Fitzhugh sat opposite, and when Milo slipped to the side and fell off, he ordered a table as well. This helped, for Milo was able to collapse on its smooth white surface, streaking it with blood.

"Tell me how it started," said Fitzhugh.

That first day's debriefing lasted nearly five hours, chronicling the events lasting from the Fourth of July through the ill-fated Paris trip to Sunday, July 8, when Milo returned. He might have gotten the story out in less time, but Fitzhugh broke in often, questioning aspects of the tale. After the Tiger's suicide in Blackdale, Fitzhugh patted the table, annoyed that Weaver had slid down again, cheek against the blood-smeared Formica. "And this was a surprise, was it?"

"What?"

"Sam Roth, al-Abari, whatever. That he had been a Tourist."

Milo placed a soiled hand on the table, palm down, and rested his chin on it. "Of course it was a surprise."

"So let me get this straight. The Tiger-a professional with one of the world's stupider names-comes to this country solely in order to have a chat with you and then off himself."

Milo nodded into his knuckles.

"My question, I suppose, is: How did your file-your Tourism file, which should be resting in the upper stratosphere of top secret-how did this file end up in his hands?"

"Grainger gave it to him."

"Whoa!" Fitzhugh exclaimed, pushing back in his chair. "Let me be sure I heard you right. You're saying Tom was working with the Tiger? That's a big claim."

"I'm afraid it is."

"And Samuel Roth-you let him take his own life, right in front of you, when you knew the man was full of invaluable information."

"I didn't have a chance to save him. He was too quick."

"Maybe you didn't want a chance. Maybe you wanted him to die. Maybe-and this is interesting-maybe you knew he had the tooth cap and you reached into his mouth with your bare hands and pierced it for him. He was weak, after all, and your fingerprints were all over his face. It would've been a cinch for a strong man like you. Maybe you even did it on Grainger's orders-why not? You're blaming the poor man for everything else." Milo answered with silence.

When they'd gotten to Grainger's briefing, the morning before he flew to Paris to test Angela Yates, Fitzhugh cut in again.

"So you did finally ask him about the Tiger."

"But he put me off," said Milo. "What was so hard about showing me the file? That's what I didn't understand. Not then. It took a long time before I got it. Too long."

"Got what?" Milo didn't answer, so Fitzhugh leaned back, crossed one knee over the other, and said, "I know he showed you the file, Milo. When you got back from Paris. So I hope you're not going to suggest that, because I hired Benjamin Michael Harris, I'm somehow connected to this. Poor recruitment skills still aren't a crime in this country."