Yes, Kyle followed. It was beginning to make sense. Expensive meals were necessary not only to keep the hungry lawyers going but also to properly balance their clients’ financial statements. Now it seemed almost prudent.

“Yes,” Kyle said, and for the first time the wine warmed his brain and made him relax.

Doug spread his arms and looked around. “And look at where we are, Kyle. Wall Street. The absolute pinnacle of success in America. We’re here, we’re on top, we’re smart and tough and talented, and we make a boatload of money to prove it. We are entitled, Kyle, and don’t forget it. Our clients pay us because they need us and we offer the best legal advice money can buy. Never forget that.”

John McAvoy had lunch every day at the same table at an old café on Queen Street in York, and from the time Kyle was ten years old and hanging around the office, he loved having lunch with his father. The café’s special was a vegetable plate that varied each day and cost little, with homemade rolls and iced tea, no sugar. The café attracted lawyers, bankers, and judges, but there were also mechanics and bricklayers. The gossip roared and the bantering was nonstop. The lawyers always joked, “Who’s paying for lunch?” and boasted of wealthy clients who they’d stick with a $3.99 check.

Kyle doubted that his father ever gave a passing thought to billing a client for lunch.

Doug insisted on dessert. Two hours after entering the restaurant, they pushed themselves out the door and into the black car. Both nodded off during the fifteen-minute ride back to the office.

For the first time in the nine-month life of the operation, Kyle contacted Bennie and suggested they meet. All prior meetings had been prompted by the handler, not the asset. Kyle gave no reason for wanting to meet, but then none was necessary. It was assumed that Kyle finally had something valuable to pass along. It was almost 6:00 p.m. on Friday, and Kyle was working in the main library on the thirty-ninth floor. By e-mail, Bennie suggested the hotel 60 Thompson in SoHo, and Kyle agreed. Kyle always agreed because he was not allowed to disagree or suggest another meeting place. It didn’t matter; he had no intention of showing up, not that Friday night. Joey wasn’t in town yet.

Four hours later, Kyle was hiding in the Placid Mortgage tomb mindlessly flipping through foreclosure files — now at $400 an hour— when he e-mailed Bennie with the sad news that he wouldn’t be leaving the office anytime soon. Could be an all-nighter. Although he loathed the work and hated the tomb, and found it hard to believe he was still at the office so late on a Friday night, he was slightly amused at the image of Bennie waiting impatiently in the hotel room for a meeting that would not take place because his asset was holed up in the office and wouldn’t come out. The handler couldn’t complain if the asset was hard at work.

Kyle suggested a meeting late Saturday afternoon, and Bennie took the bait. Within minutes he e-mailed the instructions: 7:00 p.m., Saturday, room 42, Wooster Hotel in SoHo. So far, a different hotel had been used for each meeting.

On a desk phone, Kyle called Joey’s new cell number and passed along the details. His flight from Pittsburgh would arrive at LaGuardia at 2:30 on Saturday afternoon. He would take a cab to the Mercer Hotel, check into his room, and kill time while his friend practiced law. He would roam the streets, walk in the front doors of bars and out the back, browse through bookstores, dart here and there in cabs, and when he was certain he was not being followed, he would drop in at the Wooster Hotel and mill around the lobby. He had in his pocket a copy of the Bennie Wright composite Kyle had been perfecting for weeks. Joey had studied it for hours and was confident he could spot the man anywhere. Now Kyle wanted Bennie in complete digital color.

At 7:30, Kyle walked through the hotel lobby and took the elevator to the fourth floor. Bennie had a small room, no suite this time. As Kyle tossed his trench coat and briefcase on the bed, he glanced into the bathroom. “Just looking for Nigel, or perhaps another surprise,” he said as he flipped on a light switch.

“Just me this time,” Bennie said. He was relaxing in a velvet chair. “You passed the bar. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” The inspection over, Kyle sat on the edge of the bed. The inspection had revealed no one but Bennie, but it had also revealed no luggage, no shaving kit, nothing to indicate Bennie would stay in the room after Kyle left.

“You’re putting in the hours,” Bennie said, again making an attempt at small talk.

“I’m a full-blown lawyer now, so evidently I’m expected to work even more.” He noted the shirt — light blue cotton, no pattern, no buttons on the collar, no necktie. The slacks were dark brown, wool, pleated. The jacket was evidently in the closet next to the bathroom, and Kyle cursed himself for not noticing it. Dark socks, no distinguishable color. Black scuffed shoes, quite ugly.

“Here’s the scoop,” Kyle said. “Five litigation partners are splitting off — Abraham, DeVere, Hanrahan, Roland, and Bradley. They’re opening up their own shop and stealing at least three clients in the process. As of last count, twenty-six associates are jumping with them. Of the partners, Bradley is the only one working on the Trylon-Bartin case. However, at least seven of the associates are assigned to the lawsuit.”

“I’m sure you have a memo.”

Kyle pulled out a single sheet of paper, tri-folded, and handed it over. It was a summary of the names of all the Scully & Pershing lawyers who were leaving. He knew Bennie would want it in writing, something to preserve in the file and keep as evidence of his treachery. There. He’d finally done it. He’d handed over firm secrets, and now there was no turning back.

Except that it was not exactly accurate. The gossip was changing by the hour, and no one seemed to know precisely who was planning to leave. Kyle had taken a few liberties with the names, especially those of the associates. Nor was it highly confidential information that he was passing along. The New York Lawyer, the trade daily, had carried at least two brief stories about the spin-off in the litigation section of Scully & Pershing. Given the ever-shifting nature of law firm personnel, it was not headline news. And besides, Bennie already knew as much as Kyle. And Kyle knew he knew.

The memo gave no details about the business of any client. In fact, it did not mention a client by name. While it appeared to have been put together in a hurry, Kyle had spent time on it and was convinced it was not a violation of ethics.

Bennie unfolded the sheet of paper and studied it carefully. Kyle watched him for a moment, then said, “I need to use the bathroom.”

“In there,” Bennie said, pointing without looking.

As Kyle walked to the bathroom, he passed the closet, its door half-open, and hanging on a rack was a cheap navy sport coat and a dark gray trench coat.

“I’m not sure this means anything,” Kyle said when he returned. “Trylon’s in-house attorneys are hands-on, and they prefer the more experienced associates. Those who are leaving will likely be replaced with third- and fourth-year people. I’m still a long shot.”

“Who’ll take Bradley’s place?”

“Not a clue. There are a lot of rumors.”

“Have you met Sherry Abney?”

“Yes, we played Softball together at the picnic in Central Park. We hit it off, but she’s not in charge of which associates are assigned to the case. That decision rests with Mr. Wilson Rush.”

“Patience, Kyle, patience. Good intelligence is based on long-term placement and relationships. You’ll get there.”

“I’m sure I will, especially if you keep picking off the associates ahead of me. How’d you get rid of McDougle? Plant the drugs in his apartment?”