The irony made even Janet Simmons smile. "But you didn't leave him alone, did you? Two weeks ago, you crashed his vacation. Why?"

Primakov chewed the inside of his mouth as if realigning his dentures. "Ms. Simmons, you're obviously getting at something with all this. I've been open with you because I know Milo is in your custody, and I don't believe any of this will harm my son. Like you say, it's not the cold war anymore. But if you want me to go on, I need something from you. I need you to tell me what's going on with Milo. I saw him at Disney World, yes, but since then I haven't seen or heard from him."

"He's being held for murder."

"Murder? Who?"

"Among others, Thomas Grainger, a CIA officer."

"Tom Grainger?" he said, then shook his head. "I don't believe it. Tom was as close to a father figure as Milo, as an adult, ever had. Certainly more than I was."

"He's confessed to the murder."

"Did he say why?"

"I'm not at liberty to share that."

The old man nodded, a finger grazing his cheek. "Of course, I did hear about Tom's death. I'm not saying this because he's my boy, you understand. I'm bourgeois enough to believe in fair punishment for a crime."

"I don't doubt that."

"I just don't think…" He paused, looking into her cool eyes. "Forget it. I'm an old man, and I talk a lot of tripe. Disney World. That's what you wanted to know about."

"Yes."

"Simple. I wanted to know what had happened to Angela Yates. She was an excellent agent, a real compliment to your great nation.”

“You knew her?"

"Sure," he said. "I even approached Miss Yates with the offer of a job."

"What kind of job?"

"Intelligence. She was an intelligent woman."

"Wait a minute," Janet began, then stopped. "Are you telling me you tried to turn Angela Yates?"

Primakov nodded, but slowly, as if measuring how much he could say. "Homeland Security, the CIA, and NSA-they all try to turn members of the United Nations every hour of every day. Is it so unforgivable for the United Nations to try the same?"

"I-" Again, she had to stop. "You talk as if you've got some intelligence agency here."

"Please!" Primakov exclaimed, again showing his hands. "The United Nations has nothing of the sort. Your country, for one, wouldn't abide it. Of course, if someone wants to share some knowledge with us, we'd be foolish not to accept it."

"What did Angela say?"

"An unequivocal no. Very patriotic, that one. I even tried to sweeten the pot. I told her the United Nations was interested in going after the Tiger. But still, she refused."

"When was this?"

"Last year. October."

"Do you know how much work she did tracking the Tiger after that?"

"I have some idea.”

“How?"

"Because I fed her information whenever I had it to share." They watched each other a moment, then Primakov continued.

"Look. We didn't want the credit for catching the Tiger. We only wanted him stopped. His assassinations were disrupting European economies and causing unrest in Africa. Usually, she didn't know the information came from us. She considered herself extremely lucky. You can argue she was."

"What about Milo?"

"What about him?"

"Why didn't you feed him information? He was following the Tiger."

Primakov thought about his answer before speaking: "Milo Weaver is my son. I can love him, yes. I can make sure my parentage doesn't ruin his career. But I also know that, as my son, he has my own limitations."

"Such as?"

"Such as not being as clever as Angela Yates. He caught the Tiger, yes, but only because the Tiger wanted to be caught." Primakov blinked at her. "Don't get me wrong, Ms. Simmons. Milo's very clever. He's just not quite as smart as his old, now dead, friend."

Primakov took a bite of cold egg, and Simmons said, "You really are very well informed, Yevgeny."

He inclined his head. "Thank you."

"What do you know about Roman Ugrimov?"

Primakov dropped his fork; it clattered on the plate. "Excuse me, Ms. Simmons, but Roman Ugrimov is as much of a shit as Milo's grandfather. Another pedophile-did you know? Some years ago he killed his underaged pregnant girlfriend in Venice simply to make a point." He pushed away his plate, his appetite now completely ruined.

"You know him personally?"

"Not as well as you do."

She drew back. "Me?"

"The CIA, at least. The Company makes the strangest bedfellows."

"Wait," said Simmons. "He may have crossed paths with some employees, but the Company doesn't work with Roman Ugrimov."

"Please, don't pretend," the old man told her. "I've got photographs of him dining happily with one of your administrators."

"Which administrator?”

“Does it matter?"

"Yes, actually. It does. Who met with him?"

Primakov pursed his lips, thought, and shook his head. "I don't remember, but I can send over a copy of the pictures if you like. A year old. Geneva."

"Geneva," Simmons whispered, then straightened. "Can you have it sent over today?"

"Whenever you like."

She produced a pen and a notepad and began writing. "I'll be at the Metropolitan Correctional Center. Here's the address. Your people can just give it to security, with my name on it." She ripped off the sheet and handed it over.

Primakov read, squinting, then folded it in half. "It will take a few hours to track down. Will one o'clock suffice?"

"Perfect." She checked her watch-it was a quarter after ten. "Thank you very much, Yevgeny." They stood, and he held out his hand. She placed hers in his and waited as he brought her knuckles again to his lips and kissed them.

"The pleasure has been all mine," he told her, very seriously. "Remember Foucault's pendulum, Ms. Simmons. My son may say he's guilty of murder, but despite years apart, I know him better than you do. He'd never kill his father."

The interview room at the MCC was much like the one in the Avenue of the Americas building, with one crucial difference: a window. It was small, high, and secured with bars, but it gave Milo his first glimpse of sunlight in three days. He hadn't realized how much he had missed it.

Still in manacles, he had been secured to his chair by a polite guard named Gregg, and after five minutes they entered. While Simmons remained the consummate professional, Fitzhugh seemed off his game. There were fresh bags under his eyes, and he kept his arms crossed defensively over his chest. Something was up.

Milo continued with his story. Landing at JFK, the car rental, driving to Lake Hopatcong, parking a half mile away, and walking through the woods. As before, Simmons didn't let the narrative move too quickly, picking at details as they came.

The conversation with Grainger came out in summary. "He was scared. I could tell that right away. At first, he claimed he had nothing to do with Tripplehorn meeting Ugrimov and the Tiger. Then he admitted he knew something about it, but the orders hadn't come from him. They'd come from above him."

"From whom?"

He shook his head, glancing at Fitzhugh, who was chewing the inside of his mouth. "Wouldn't say," Milo told her. "He tried to make it into a conspiracy. High reaches of power, that sort of thing. He said that it was all part of a plan to disrupt China's oil supply.”

“You believed him?"

He hesitated, then nodded. "Yes, I believed in the aims of what was happening. But I think the buck stopped with him. In fact, I know it. I already talked about how upset he was that Ascot had taken over the Company."

"Yes," said Simmons. "I read the transcript of that."

"Tom was terrified. At the time, I thought he was just worried about his section, that a lot of people would get the axe. Maybe he was, but it wasn't enough to upset him that much. He was afraid his little side project would become derailed. Who kept the Tiger's file from me? Tom. Who made sure Angela and I never worked together to catch him? Tom."