A little shiver of premonition eeled its way through St. Vincent. Bluto was the field name for Martin Price, the agent he had following Paulus Lindstrom.

“I understand,” the general went on in the overprecise tone drunks used when they didn’t want anyone to know they were drunk, “that Bluto lost Dr. Lindstrom once or twice already.” General Serling wasn’t drunk; he was very, very angry. “That for the past several nights Dr. Lindstrom has not gone home.” He turned to face St. Vincent, his gaze piercing, implacable. “Where was Lindstrom? What was he doing?”

When St. Vincent did not answer, the general said, “There are weapons that are simply voiced thoughts. Prejudices can kill and suspicion can destroy. Do you understand me?”

“I do, but—”

“But nothing.” General Serling launched his final arrow. “Bluto is missing, Luther. He is nowhere to be found. His car was discovered about twenty minutes ago in Rock Creek Park, abandoned. Also, wiped clean, which would leave one to believe that Bluto is no longer among the living.”

Serling’s expression darkened. “Bluto. A death on your watch.”

“Are you questioning my actions, Director?”

“I’m questioning the impulse behind your actions.” When St. Vincent remained mute, Serling moved so that he was between St. Vincent and the monitors. “Up until now you’ve led a charmed life, Luther. But your protection has given you a sense of entitlement that is unwarranted and unwise. Good as you are at your job, there is still a line you have to toe just like anyone else.”

The general’s eyes were like dark pits; he looked as if he had forgotten how to smile. “Some people possess talent, others are possessed by it. When that happens a talent becomes a curse.” He held up a warning finger as St. Vincent was about to interrupt him. “I’m not the only one who thinks so. This—let’s call it an intervention—comes straight from the national security adviser himself.” He paused for a moment. “Imagine, Luther, if POTUS ever got wind of this death.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Don’t kid yourself, bucko. He loves his image—he loves it a shitload. He may love you now, but believe me, like any politician, he’ll throw you under the bus as soon as look at you if the need arises. Bedrock self-preservation is his business—his only business. I urge you to keep that in mind as you move forward.

“And move forward you shall, because you need to redeem yourself in my eyes and those of the national security adviser. Bluto’s death has sent serious reverberations throughout NSA. It’s up to you to deliver the counterblow.” He bared his teeth like a lion confronted with raw meat. “Who sent us this message, Luther? Find out, will you, son? Because as sure as God made little green apples we are under attack on our home turf.”

*   *   *