St. Vincent turned the ignition on, eased the car out into the street. Eight minutes later he was parked across from Sydny’s apartment. He lit another cigarette, opened the window, stared at the façade of her building. He let his mind wander, allowed his imagination to take root, until visions of what Sydny might be doing and in what stage of undress flashed across the scrim of his mind. He tried to imagine the depths of such a lewd woman’s sins. Then he tried harder, so hard an ache began behind his eyes, the same kind of ache he’d get when he slid into bed after one of his mother’s visit, as if he were inside a storm of wasps.

He smoked the cigarette down to the nub, flicked it into the road. He was about to get out of the car when his mobile buzzed. Dickerson.

“How are you and Lucy getting along?”

“Fine,” Dickerson said in his ear. “But I—”

“Where have you put her up?”

“My place for the time being, but boss—”

“I’m busy, Jonah. You have thirty seconds.”

“We have a situation, boss. Sergeant Moran has failed to check in.”

“Maybe he’s taking a crap.” St. Vincent stared up at the light coming through the living room windows of Sydny’s apartment. The bedroom was dark.

“We can’t raise anyone in the cadre,” Dickerson said. “It’s as if the comm at the villa doesn’t exist.”

Now he had St. Vincent’s full attention. A thought entered St. Vincent’s mind—a terrible thought. “Jonah, where is Whitman and the Red Rover team?”

“They’re supposed to be in Beirut.”

“I know where they’re supposed to be, shithead.” St. Vincent was truly irritated now. Irritated and more than a little alarmed. “Find out where they actually are. You have thirty minutes. If, by then, you can’t give me a definitive answer, pack your possessions. You’ll be cleaning toilets in the congressional bathrooms.”

*   *   *

Enough! Whitman shouted silently. He was team leader; he had to remain unshaken by everything no matter what. He had to heal someone.

“Compadre!” he called. “¡Ven aquí, por favor!”

Flix appeared a moment later. Whitman was shocked at how much he had changed in just a matter of a half hour. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes looked like black holes in a skull. Worst of all, bloody vertical tracks scored down either side of his face, like war paint or ritual incisions. Crescents of crusted blood were visible under his nails.

There were still other changes: he moved as if on ball bearings, his boots scarcely touching the ground. He made as much noise as an owl on the hunt, which was to say, none. His eyes seemed focused on both Whitman and on the immediate environment, which, so far as Whitman knew, was impossible.