“Want me to send someone?”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

“You still meeting her at the hotel?"

"Yes," said Fitzhugh, pleased by the senator's patience. "I'm meeting her there at…" He checked his watch in the light of the setting sun. "She'll be there at ten this evening."

"Better make it eleven," Senator Irwin told him.

"Sure. Eleven."

The senator hung up first, and Fitzhugh settled the dirty receiver in the cradle and wiped his hands on his pants. A bellboy recognized him with a smile and a nod, and Fitzhugh returned the greeting. He had about five hours to get sober, so he went to the Mansfield's M Bar and ordered coffee. But after a half hour and a few words with the twenty-year-old bartender, a pretty aspiring actress, he changed his mind. A little buzz wouldn't ruin him. Three more scotches, and he stumbled up to his room.

What to do about Simmons? The senator had enough pull to transfer her to one of those dreary regional Homeland offices, up around Pierre, South Dakota, perhaps. Simply keep her away until the investigation could be completed and Weaver sentenced to prison for killing Grainger. He no longer placed his bets on Weaver being a Russian mole-that was a bird in the tree. The bird in the hand was murder, and Weaver's beautiful confession. He might change his story at the last minute, of course, but with Simmons out of the way Fitzhugh could work with the story already recorded. Really, he assured himself, finding what was left of his scotch beside the bed and pouring himself one more shot, it was just a matter of removing Simmons from the present equation-that would make everyone, even the irritated senator, happy and safe.

Punctually at eleven, a knock on the door woke him. He'd slipped off into an easy nap without realizing it. Through the spy hole was a man as old as himself, gray on the sides, one of the senator's aides. He opened the door and offered a hand, but when they shook the man didn't offer his name. That's how these special men were; they didn't use names. Fitzhugh locked the door, turned on the television for covering noise, and offered the man a drink from Grainger's bottle. The man politely refused.

"We should get down to business," the man said. "Tell me everything."

Special Agent Janet Simmons arrived on Monday, July 30, the morning after Milo's third night at the MCC. The path to Milo Weaver had begun the previous morning, Sunday, when her cell phone buzzed her awake at 5:00 a.m. It was the local Homeland office, which thought she might be interested in some 911 chatter. She was, and took a taxi over to the Mansfield Hotel.

She spent three hours looking over the room and all Fitzhugh's personal effects. She used her Canon to photograph the note he'd left behind. She had a long talk with the homicide inspector, a twenty-year veteran who had seen it all. This was just another sad man in a city that, when it wasn't ecstatic, slipped into a too-easy depression. A Company representative arrived on the scene at nine and thanked her for her swift appearance, but insisted her help was no longer needed.

She'd returned to the Grand Hyatt feeling numb but hungry, ate a large breakfast in the Sky Restaurant, and thought back over the trail of information she'd collected during the previous four days. In her room, she gazed at the photograph of Terence Fitzhugh and Roman Ugrimov in Geneva, then made a call to Washington. Immigration, she was told, did have a flight plan for one Roman Ugrimov, who had flown into JFK on Thursday, July 26, and flown out again on a late flight Saturday, July 28. Yesterday.

She called George and asked for photographs of one Jim Pearson and one Maximilian Grzybowski, aides to Senator Nathan Irwin from Minnesota. An hour later, they were in her in-box.

By four, she had reached Park Slope, but this time she didn't bother parking out of sight of the apartment. She found a spot on Garfield, near the front door, and rang the bell to warn Tina there was a visitor. Because of the broken pieces that had to be thrown away, the apartment was airier now, lighter. A pleasant place to spend a Sunday afternoon. Simmons had picked up a box of cookies on the way over to reward Stephanie for finding the cigarette lighter, and the girl seemed pleased Simmons had even remembered. Then they sat on the sofa and Simmons opened her laptop and shared the pictures of Jim Pearson and Maximilian Grzybowski. Though she'd half expected it, Tina's shaking head and insistence that these men were complete strangers still made her feel as if she'd opened a box full of despair.

Afterward, Tina wanted to hear everything about Yevgeny Primakov. Simmons saw no point in hiding Milo's heritage from her, so she told the story in its entirety. By the time she finished, all three of them were in awe of this woman, Ellen, and the life she had lived. "Christ," said Tina. "That's so rock and roll."

Simmons laughed. Stephanie said, "Rock and roll?"

Back in her hotel, Simmons spent most of the night in a fit of anger. When the surprise (and even admiration) had faded, anger was all she was left with. The virgin would have again referenced her megalomania. Megalomaniacs cannot abide the idea that they are not personally in control of every variable. It becomes worse when they realize that not only are they not in control, someone else is, someone who has been directing all of their movements.

In the midst of her fury, she used the hotel phone to call the United Nations operator and demanded Yevgeny Primakov's New York number. The operator told her that Mr. Primakov had left New York that morning. According to her information, he was on vacation, but should be reachable through the Brussels offices from September 17. Simmons nearly broke the receiver, slamming it back into the cradle.

Eventually the anger did fade, if only because of exhaustion. She remembered the fresh energy she'd had in Blackdale, Tennessee.

Her engine had first been revved there and had sustained its intensity over the length of an entire month. It had to run out of gas; that only made sense.

In the morning, she took the subway south to Foley Square, went inside the Metropolitan Correctional Center, suffered through security by emptying her pockets of her entire life, and asked to speak to Milo Weaver.

They brought him up in manacles again. He looked tired, but healthy. The signs of the beating he'd gotten in the Avenue of the Americas offices lingered only as bruises, and he actually looked as if he'd put on a pound or two. His eyes were no longer bloodshot.

"Hello, Milo," she said as the guard, on his knees, attached his chains to the table. "You look fit."

"It's the excellent food," he said, smiling at the guard, who grinned back as he stood. "Is it solid, Gregg?"

"Indeed it is, Milo."

"Fantastic."

Gregg left them alone and locked the door behind himself, but waited by the reinforced window to keep an eye on the situation. Simmons took a seat and wove her fingers together on the table. "You get any news in here?"

"Gregg smuggled in the Sunday Times" he said, then lowered his voice. "Don't let that get around, okay?"

Simmons used an imaginary key to lock her lips, then tossed it away. "Fitzhugh's dead. Body discovered in his hotel room yesterday morning."

Milo blinked at her, surprised-but was he surprised? She had no idea. She had read his file and uncovered the hidden nooks of his past, but Milo Weaver was still an enigma. He said, "How about that?"

"Yes. How about it?"

"Who did it?"

"The coroner says suicide. The pistol was licensed to him, and there was a note."

He showed more surprise, and again she wondered. He became serious. "What did it say?"

"A lot of things. It was a rambling note, bad writing, probably written while drunk. He had a fifth of scotch in him. A lot of it was for his wife. Apologies for being a bad husband, that sort of thing. But he did devote a few sentences to the case. He said he was responsible for Grainger's death. He said he'd been running Grainger from the beginning. Really, all the things Grainger told you. The things you said you didn't believe."