I looked out the portholes again. The boats were only twenty yards off, now. The larger boat was on our port side; I saw a few men on deck and assumed there must be several dozen more below. Off our starboard side was the smaller launch. The man in the trench coat was talking into a phone, having another conversation with his superiors. They had their arrest warrant; they had probable cause to believe that Bézy was on board the yacht; they were prepared to board, if someone gave the order. They were about to make a mistake.

“What is your answer?” said Alessi. “It appears they will be alongside in a moment.”

I thought another moment, but I knew that I would say yes. In the instant of decision, something automatic takes over in most people: it’s hardwired. In me, the automatic reflex has usually been: Yes. I want to stay at the table, finish the game, play another set. And in this case, there was something more powerful at work. The CIA had ordered me to say no, but the reporter’s answer had to be yes. It was a clear, unambiguous choice. This was my opportunity to move back across the line, to leave Rubino’s team and rejoin my own.

“I’ll go to Montreal,” I said.

“Good. Mr. Bézy will be pleased.”

We heard the sound of a siren, then the sharp pop of a flare across our bow.

“I think we should go up on deck,” said Alessi.

The man in the trench coat had a bullhorn in his hand. “Ahoy, Serendipity. What is your destination?”

“The airport,” Alessi shouted back. “We will dock at Jeffries Yacht Club, next to the dock for the water shuttle.”

The commander stepped back into the cabin and picked up his phone to relay this latest bizarre fact. He came back on deck and bellowed again with his bullhorn. “We will escort you to the dock, Serendipity. Are you prepared for us to search your boat when we get there?”

“Do you have a warrant?” asked Alessi.

“Yes, we do,” barked the commander.

“Then of course you may search. We have nothing here that you want.”

Alessi went up to the captain of his boat and spoke to him in French, then retreated back to the cabin. I went to the rear deck. The commander’s launch was a few yards off our starboard side. I could see him beckoning to me again, as if to say, Come, jump, get away. I gave him another thumbs-up signal, in response: it was okay, I was safe. But in my mind, the connection between us had been severed.

“Get off the boat now, Truell,” he called out.

“I’m all right,” I said. “I know what I’m doing.”