"Yes," Simmons admitted. "And who gave the Tiger your file, assuring that he'd come to you at some point?" When Milo didn't answer immediately, she answered the question herself: "Tom."

Milo shook his head. "That backfired. He made sure the Tiger had my file, and hoped the Tiger would come and take care of me himself."

"Tom thought the Tiger would kill you."

"Yes."

"Go on."

Milo explained that Grainger was desperate to dig himself out of his hole. "What's the best way to do that? You shift the blame to those above you."

"People like Mr. Fitzhugh here?" Simmons suggested, smiling.

At first, Fitzhugh didn't smile, then he did, forcefully, and leaned forward. "Yes, Milo. Did Grainger try to soil my good name?"

"Sure he did. But what else could he say? He accused everyone he could think of. Everyone except himself."

"And so you killed him," Fitzhugh said, urging the story on.

"Yes. I killed him."

Simmons crossed her arms over her breasts and stared at Milo a moment. Then: "Inside the house, just inside the front door, someone else died. Blood everywhere. Also, three windows were broken. In the stairs to the second floor we found seven slugs."

"Yes. That would be Tripplehorn."

"You killed this man?"

"I interrogated Tom for a few hours on Monday night. I don't know how he did it, but somehow he made contact. Maybe he'd already expected me and had prepared. But in the morning Tripplehorn arrived. He trapped me on the stairs, and I was lucky to get him."

"Where was Tom when this occurred?"

"In the kitchen. I guess he broke the windows, looking for a way out-"

"Away out?" Simmons interrupted. "But the windows were broken from the outside."

Milo paused, looking uncomfortable, but he was glad Simmons had a clear memory for details. "Like I said, I don't know. All I know is, Tom got out. I was next to Tripplehorn's body when I saw him running past. I didn't even think. I was furious. I took Tripplehorn's rifle, aimed, and shot twice."

"Once in the forehead, once in the shoulder."

Milo nodded.

"He was running away?"

"Yes."

"Yet he was shot from the front."

Milo blinked, trying not to show his pleasure. Primakov had been right about everything. "I shouted his name. He stopped and turned back."

Her expression suggested she knew this already. "One thing's strange, though."

Milo, staring at the table, didn't bother asking what that strange thing was.

"You got rid of Tripplehorn's body, but not Grainger's. Why'd you do that, Milo?"

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes. "I thought that if I got rid of Tripplehorn, then ballistics would match the bullets to his gun. The hunt would shift from me to him. What I forgot was that he doesn't really exist. He was black ops.”

“You mean, a Tourist?"

Milo raised his eyes to meet hers, while Fitzhugh shifted in his seat, saying, "What're you talking about, Janet?"

"Let's cut the bullshit, okay? We've known about your special field agents for years. Just answer the question."

Milo looked to Fitzhugh for guidance, and the older man, chewing his cheek, finally nodded.

"Yes," said Milo. "He was a Tourist."

"Thank you. Now that that's out of the way, can we go on?"

He told them about disposing of Tripplehorn's corpse in the mountains near Lake Hopatcong, but claimed not to remember exactly where. Then he'd sent a coded e-mail to Tina from an Internet cafe.

"The barbecue party," Simmons said with a grin. "That was good. Only figured it out after Tina told us."

"Then you also know that it was a failure. She wouldn't leave with me."

"Don't take it personally," said Simmons. "Not many people would just drop everything and disappear."

"Either way, I was stuck. I didn't want to leave without my family, and my family wouldn't leave with me."

"So you drove to Albuquerque," Fitzhugh cut in. "Stayed at the Red Roof Inn."

"Yeah."

"This is verified?" asked Simmons.

Fitzhugh nodded, then looked up at the sound of someone knocking on the door. He opened it a crack. The voice of a guard wafted in: "This is for Special Agent Janet Simmons."

"Who's it from?" asked Fitzhugh, but Simmons was already on her feet, pulling the door open and taking the flat manila envelope from the guard.

"Just a sec, guys," she said, then stepped into the corridor.

Fitzhugh looked at Milo, sighing heavily. "It's a hell of a thing."

"What is?"

"All this. Tom Grainger. Did you have any idea he could be so manipulative?"

"I hardly even believe it now."

Simmons returned with the envelope under her arm. Her cheeks, both men noticed, were nearly fuchsia.

"What's the news?" asked Fitzhugh, but she ignored him and returned to her chair.

She stared hard at Milo, thinking something over, then placed the envelope flat on the table, her hand on top of it. "Milo, I want you to explain the Russian passport."

He wanted to know what was in that envelope, but said, "Terence mentioned it. It's a forgery, or a trick. I'm not a Russian citizen."

"But your father is.”

“My father's dead."

"Then how did he show up in Disney World two weeks ago to have a secret meeting with you?”

“What?" said Fitzhugh.

Simmons ignored him. "Answer me, Milo. Your wife might not be the kind of person to disappear with you, but she's just as human as the rest of us. You introduced her to Yevgeny Primakov without ever telling her that she was meeting her father-in-law. And two days ago, we went to see your grandfather on your mother's side. William Perkins. Ring any bells?"

The air went out of Milo. His scalp buzzed. How had she done it? Trust me, his father had said, but this couldn't have been part of any plan, exposing all this. He turned to Fitzhugh. "There's nothing to say about this. I'm devoted to this country and the Company. Don't listen to her."

"Talk to me" said Simmons.

"No," said Milo.

"Milo," Fitzhugh began, "I think you better-"

"No!" he shouted, and started jumping in his chair, the noise of rattling chains filling the small room. "No! Get out of here! This conversation is over!"

The guards were already inside, two of them, holding Milo's shoulders, kicking his feet off the floor and pressing him down. "Get rid of him?" one asked Fitzhugh.

"No," said Simmons, standing. "Keep him there. Terence, come with me."

They left, and Milo calmed beneath the guards' hands. This had not been part of any plan-his outburst had come from somewhere else. It was the nervous reaction to that secret place being cracked open. Now they knew. Not just them, though, but Tina.

He slumped until his forehead settled on the table. Tina knew. She knew now what her husband was and had always been. A liar.

Did any of this even matter anymore? All he'd wanted was to go home again, and now, probably, that was one place he was no longer welcome.

Without knowing it, he began to hum. A melody.

Je suis une poupee de cire,

Une poupee de son

He stopped himself before it broke him completely.

Through the closed door, he heard Fitzhugh shouting something indecipherable, then footsteps leading away. Simmons entered alone, the envelope under her arm, the flush in her cheeks fading. She spoke to the guards: "I want you to turn off the cameras and microphones. Got it? All of them. When you've done that, knock three times on the door but don't come in. Yes?"

The two men nodded, glancing down at the prisoner, then left.

She took her seat across from Milo, placed the envelope on the table, and waited. She said nothing, and Milo said nothing, only shifted for a better position, the chains making a little noise. He decided not to speculate on what was going on-speculation was killing him. When, finally, they heard three clear knocks on the door, Simmons allowed herself a soft smile. She used the friendly voice she'd first used in Blackdale, Tennessee, the one she'd been taught in interrogation training, and leaned forward, the better to close the psychological distance.