I am writing to express the profound thanks of the President of the United States for the courageous service you have rendered to your country. The assistance you provided the Central Intelligence Agency in our recent operation in Beijing, China, made an important and lasting contribution to the nation’s security.

Some patriots have the opportunity to serve their country openly, in public view; others must do so in secret, in ways that can never be disclosed. But their service is no less important for being secret. We can never express our gratitude to you openly, but the few who know what you did will always celebrate your achievement.”

When I finished reading, Rubino extended his hand. I thought he wanted to shake, but he actually wanted the letter back. “Sorry, Eric, but you can’t keep it. We’ll hold it for you in a secure vault at the agency. If you ever want to look at it, let me know, and I’ll get it out.”

“Thanks,” I said. He could keep it locked as deep in the vault as he liked. Burning it would be all right with me, too. “What will Navarre do now?” I asked. I thought of that dark little troll in his laboratory at Qinghua, and the look on his face when I told him the U.S. government could get him out. What would he do with his freedom?

“First, he’ll have a nice, long debriefing. In exchange for being released from hell, he gets to tell us what he knows about Chinese biological-weapons research. Then, he’s a free man. If he likes, he can work for us. Or we’ll set him up at a good university. Whatever he wants. We’ve already put aside two million dollars to buy him an annuity.”

“Can I see him? That would mean more to me than the letter, frankly.”

“Not right now. We’re trying to build him a new identity. If we aren’t careful and they find him, they’ll kill him.”

“Then can I write about him? Do a story saying that he defected? That would make me feel better about everything, if I could get some journalism out of this.”

“At some point, sure. It’s your story. But I’d be happier if you waited awhile. Right now, anything in the newspaper would be dangerous. It might push people to do stupid things.”

I nodded. It made sense, and he was at least pretending that I had a choice. I closed my eyes. My stomach hurt. I remembered the way Arthur looked on the ground, the way the bones were breaking through the skin, the way the blood poured from the wounds on his face, the way his nose had been crushed, like the pulpy rind of an orange.