She pulled out the photographs one by one until the three were beside each other on the table, facing Milo. "Do you recognize these men, Milo?"

It was a restaurant, Chinese. Two men shaking hands. He gritted his teeth, finally understanding.

You'll know. You'll know when it's time for the Third Lie.

When he spoke, his voice was crackly from his shouting fit. "Light's not too good."

She considered this statement, as if it had basis in fact; it didn't. "Well, that one looks like Terence, doesn't it?"

Milo nodded.

"The other man-his friend-does that face look familiar?"

Milo made a show of examining the face. He shook his head. "Hard to say. I don't think I know him."

"It's Roman Ugrimov, Milo. Surely you remember his face."

Milo wouldn't admit to anything. He pursed his lips and shook his head.

She collected the photographs and slipped them back into the envelope. Then she pressed her hands together, at her cleavage, as if in prayer. Her voice was sweetness and light. "We're all alone here, Milo. Terence is out of the building. He's out of the picture now. You can stop protecting him."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he answered, but it was a whisper.

"Cut it out, okay?" she said softly. "Nothing will happen to you if you simply tell me the truth. I promise."

Milo considered that, looked ready to say something, then changed his mind. He took a raspy breath. "Janet, despite our personal issues, I do trust that you'll stick to your promise. But that might not be good enough."

"For you?"

"And others."

Janet sat back, eyes narrowing. "Who? Your family?" Milo didn't answer.

"I'll take care of your family, Milo. No one's going to touch them."

He flinched, as if she'd touched a nerve.

"So stop protecting him, okay? He can't do anything. He can't even hear us. You and me, Milo, we're completely alone. Tell me the real story."

Milo considered this, then shook his head. "Janet, none of us are ever alone." He exhaled, glanced at the door, and leaned close so his whispered Lie Number Three would be better heard. "I made a deal with him."

"Terence?"

He nodded.

She watched him a moment, and he waited to see if she could fill in the details herself. "To take the rap for Grainger's murder," she speculated.

"Yes."

"And blame Grainger for everything else?"

Milo didn't bother confirming this. He only said, "I was promised a short jail term, and he…" Milo swallowed. "And he would leave my family alone. So if you plan on doing something about this, you had better be ready to protect them with your life."

He'd known, even before walking into that interview room off of Foley Square, that things were sinking fast. It was the note from Sal:

Not compromised. My last communication was about JS's trip to DT HQ. How is it wrong?

It was a tragic reply, no matter how he looked at it. There were three possibilities.

1. It was not Sal on the line. He had been exposed, and someone at Homeland was writing him confusing e-mails, using Sal's name.

2. Sal was there, but again, he was compromised, and his new masters were telling him what to say.

3. Sal was there, but didn't know he was compromised. Someone had decided to slip Fitzhugh an extra message and watch him sweat it out.

All three possibilities were bad news.

But he'd collected his wits before the interview. The truth was that nothing could connect him to the Tiger, the death of Angela Yates, or even Grainger. The whole operation had been run through

Grainger, who was dead, which meant that, other than Milo Weaver, there was nothing left to threaten him. It was a dead case-it should be a dead case.

Self-assurances can only take you so far. Simmons had first thrown him off guard with that revelation about Weaver's parentage-how had they not found this before? Then she asked him into the corridor.

"Tell me why two aides to Senator Nathan Irwin were questioning Tina Weaver about you. Can you do that?"

"What?" He'd never heard anything about this before. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Janet Simmons's cheeks were brilliant in their flush, as if they'd each been slapped hard. "You told me before that you didn't know anything about Roman Ugrimov. That's correct?"

Fitzhugh nodded.

"Which I guess means you've never met him."

"That's exactly what it means. What's this about?"

"Then what's this?" She let him open the envelope himself. He pulled out three page-sized photographs. A Chinese restaurant, shot from a wide-angle hidden camera pointed at a small rear table.

"Wait a minute," he began.

"You and Ugrimov look pretty friendly to me," said Simmons.

His vision fogged as he thought back to the previous night. Just a mistake, a man who mistook him for someone else. He tried to get Janet Simmons in focus. "Who gave you these?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it does!" he shouted. "This is a setup, don't you see? This was taken last night! The man-he thought I was someone else… that's what he said. He shook my hand, then apologized because he thought I was someone named…" He tried to remember. "Bernard! That's it! He said Bernard!"

"These were taken last year in Geneva." Her quiet voice contrasted with his hysteria.

Then, finally, he understood. It was her. It had always been her. Janet Simmons and the Department of Homeland Security had come gunning for him. Why, he didn't know. Maybe in retaliation for Sal. All this-her pretense of wanting Milo Weaver behind bars, of being frustrated by Tom Grainger-it was all a ruse to distract him from her real aim, which was to bury Terence Albert Fitzhugh. Christ, he thought. They didn't even care about the Tiger or Roman Ugrimov. Bait and switch. It was all about him.

Finally, some words had come to him. "Whatever you think you know, it's just fantasy. I don't know Roman Ugrimov. I'm not the guilty party here." He pointed at the door. "That's the guilty party, Janet, and you can falsify all the evidence you like. It won't change a thing."

He'd stormed out and found his way to this bar full of tourists, not far from his hotel. Scotch had always been his drink, because that's what his father and his grandfather had sworn by, but all around him idiots from south of the Mason-Dixon guzzled beer, while their women sipped wine coolers and laughed at their men's stories.

How could it have gone so bad, so quick? What had he done wrong?

He tried to pull back, to see the situation from a distance, but it was hard. He knew, if only from his good work in Africa, that a few well-placed acts could be interpreted in any number of ways. Was he interpreting correctly? Was he in touch with the underlying truth of the evidence in front of him?

After six, someone at the jukebox put on Journey, which felt like his cue to leave. He slipped into the movement of weekend tourists heading to Broadway shows, wanting to be just another part of their anonymous body, but at the next corner, spotting a pay phone a block from the Mansfield, he realized he couldn't. He needed help.

He shoved in coins and called the number he tried not to abuse, and Senator Irwin answered on the fifth ring with a wary "Hello?"

"It's me," said Fitzhugh, then remembered what he was supposed to say: "Carlos. It's Carlos."

"Well, how are you, Carlos?"

"Not well. I think my wife's got me figured out. She knows about the girl."

"I told you, Carlos, you've got to cut that out. It does no one any good."

"And she's heard about you."

Silence followed.

"It'll be all right," Fitzhugh insisted. "But I might need some help. You know, someone to cover for me.”