After three years of intense and often frantic research and design, the Air Force announced that it had selected the Trylon-Bartin design. This was done with as little fanfare as possible since the dollar amounts were staggering, the country was fighting two wars, and the Pentagon decided it would not be wise to broadcast such an ambitious procurement plan. The Air Force tried its best to downplay the B-10 program, but it was a waste of time. As soon as the winner was announced, fighting erupted on all fronts.

Lockheed roared back with its senators and lobbyists and lawyers. Trylon and Bartin, historically fierce competitors, began sniping almost immediately. The prospect of that much money splintered any notion of cooperation. Each corralled its politicians and lobbyists and joined the fight for a bigger piece of the pork. The British, French, and Israelis eased to the sidelines but certainly did not go away.

Both Trylon and Bartin claimed ownership of the design and the technologies. Efforts to mediate succeeded, then failed. Lockheed loomed in the background, waiting. The Pentagon threatened to yank the contract and have another contest. Congressmen held hearings. Governors wanted jobs and economic development. Journalists wrote long pieces in magazines. Waste and watchdog groups railed against the B-10 as if it were a shuttle to Mars.

And the lawyers quietly prepared for litigation.

TWO HOURS AFTER the lawsuit was filed, Kyle saw it posted on the federal court’s Web site. He was at his desk in his office at the Yale Law Journal, editing a lengthy article on his computer. For three weeks now he had been checking the filings in all the federal courts in New York, as well as the state courts. During their first wretched session, Bennie had mentioned the upcoming filing of a massive lawsuit in New York, the one that Kyle was now expected to infiltrate. In meetings since then, Kyle had repeatedly prodded Bennie for information about the lawsuit, but each inquiry had been met with a dismissive “We’ll talk about it later.”

Oddly, the online posting of the lawsuit revealed nothing but its title and the name, address, law firm, and bar certification number of Wilson Rush. The word “SECURE” was inserted after the title, and Kyle was unable to access the contents of the complaint. In the Southern District of New York, no other case filed in the past three weeks had been locked away in such a manner.

Red flags began to wave.

He searched Agee, Poe & Epps and studied their exhaustive list of corporate clients. The firm had represented Bartin Dynamics since the 1980s.

Kyle forgot about the law journal work piled on his desk and around his chair, and lost himself on the Internet. A search of Trylon soon revealed its B-10 HyperSonic Bomber project and all the problems it had caused, and, evidently, was still creating.

Kyle closed the door of his small office and checked the printer for paper. It was almost eight on Friday night, and though the law journal types were known for their odd hours, the crew had cleared out for spring break. He printed all available corporate info on Trylon and Bartin, then added more paper. There were several dozen newspaper and magazine articles on the B-10 fiasco. He printed them all and began reading the most serious ones.

He found a hundred defense and military Web sites, and on one for futuristic warfare there were pages of background on the B-10. He checked prior court filings to see how often Scully & Pershing had sued on behalf of or defended Trylon, and did the same for Agee, Poe & Epps and Bartin. On into the night he dug and dug, and the thicker his file became, the worse he felt.

There was a chance he was chasing the wrong lawsuit. He couldn’t know for sure until Bennie confirmed it. But there was little doubt. The timing was on schedule. The law firms were in place.

Billions were at stake, just as Bennie had said. Two corporations that were old competitors. Two law firms that hated each other.

Military secrets. Stolen technology. Corporate espionage. Foreign intelligence. Threats of litigation and even criminal prosecution. It was one monumental, sordid mess, and now he, Kyle McAvoy, was expected to insert himself into the fray.

In recent weeks, he had often speculated about what type of case was worth the high cost of such elaborate espionage. Two corporate rivals fighting over a pot of gold could describe any number of disputes. Perhaps it was an antitrust case, or a patent dispute, or a couple of drug companies brawling over the latest obesity pill. The worst-case scenario was the one he had just been handed — a gold-plated Pentagon procurement program complete with secret technologies, warring politicians, ruthless executives, and so on. The list was long and disheartening.

Why couldn’t he just go back to York and practice law with his father?

At 1:00 a.m., he stuffed his notebooks into his backpack and for a few seconds went through the fruitless ritual of straightening his desk. He looked around, turned off the light, locked his door, and again realized that any decent operative could intrude whenever he wanted. He felt certain Bennie and his thugs had been there, probably with bugs and wires and mikes and other crap that Kyle tried not to think about.

And he was sure they were watching. In spite of his demands that Bennie leave him alone, Kyle knew they were following him. He’d seen them several times. They were good, but they had made a few mistakes. The challenge, he told himself repeatedly, was to act as though he had no clue that they were watching. Just play the role of a naïve, unconcerned college kid hauling a backpack around campus and looking at girls. He never changed his routines, or his routes, or parking lots. Same spot for lunch almost every day. Same coffee shop where he met Olivia occasionally after class. He was either at the law school or at his apartment, with few diversions along the way. And because his habits remained the same, so did those of his shadows. They became lazy because he was such an easy target. Kyle, the innocent, lulled them to sleep, and when they nodded off, he caught them. One face he’d seen three times already, a young ruddy face with different eyeglasses and a mustache that came and went.

At a used bookstore near the campus, Kyle began buying old paperback spy novels for a dollar each. He bought them one at a time, kept the current one in his backpack, and when he finished, he tossed it in the wastebasket at the law school and bought another.

He assumed that none of his communications were confidential. His cell phone and laptop were compromised, he was certain. He increased, slightly, his e-mails to Joey Bernardo, Alan Strock, and Baxter Tate, but all messages were quick howdies with almost no substance. He did the same for other Beta brothers, all under the guise of encouraging his buddies to do a better job of keeping in touch. He called each of them once a week and talked sports and school and careers.

If Bennie was in fact listening, he heard not one word to indicate Kyle was even remotely suspicious.

Kyle convinced himself that to survive the next seven years, he must learn to think and act like his adversaries. There was a way out. Somewhere.

BENNIE WAS BACK in town. They met for a sandwich on Saturday at a pita place north of town, away from campus. He had promised to drop in every other week or so throughout the spring, until Kyle graduated in May. Kyle had asked why this was necessary. Bennie had offered some meaningless blather about maintaining contact.

In each of their subsequent meetings, Bennie’s personality had softened slightly. He would always be the no-nonsense hard-ass handler with a mission, but he was acting as though he wanted their time together to be somewhat pleasant. After all, they would spend hours together, he said, and this always evoked a frown from Kyle, who wanted no part of any pleasant chitchat.