The NSA is involved. This dreadful sentence kept repeating in Julie’s head as she stood by the kitchen sink after Orrin had left for work. She knew she had to call Hemingway to tell him she was ill and wouldn’t be coming in today, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to do it from her mobile. Like many people these days, Orrin had no landline, not that she would have used it either. The NSA could very well be listening in on Hemingway’s lines; after the events of last night, she couldn’t take the chance that they weren’t. Even if she purchased a burner phone, they’d be able to connect with it the moment she called in. Luther St. Vincent, the head of Directorate N, the shadowy department within the already shadowy NSA, knew Sydny, wanted her dead, and had carried out the termination himself. This terrified Julie. If Sydny was under NSA surveillance, then it stood to reason that anyone who came in contact with her had also been drawn into their electronic net. She shivered. Why would St. Vincent have put Sydny, a pole dancer, under surveillance? She shook her head. It didn’t make sense. And then her mind calmed, cleared and she remembered Greg Whitman, to whom Sydny had handed her over after their first meeting. St. Vincent was after Whitman. But, still, why murder Sydny? Because they were friends—lovers? That might explain why St. Vincent did the wet work himself. It was personal between him and Whitman. Another, deeper shiver ran through her.

She showered, dressed in her soiled clothes, and went out to buy herself a new outfit. Before she did, though, she went into a drugstore, picked her way to the rear, and found the pharmacist.

Stitching her most seductive smile onto her face, she said, “Can I please make a local call? I’ve left my mobile at home. It’s something of an emergency and it’ll only take a minute, I promise.”

She called Hemingway’s private line, told him she was ill and would be out for a couple of days. When he asked if she needed anything, she said Yes silently, but told him “No.” She thanked the pharmacist and returned to the street. If NSA was listening in on Hemingway’s calls the trail to her would lead to this dead end.

*   *   *

It was all Orrin could do not to dance around the attorney general’s office. He had, in fact, danced for a moment as the subway slid into the station, as he waited for the doors to open. Everyone around him was too busy thinking their own morning thoughts to notice or care.