“Dear god,” he breathed. “I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“You never did,” Julie said.

A sober, almost depressed silence ensued, during which Hemingway continued to drive at such an accelerated pace that Julie blurted out, “Slow down, for heaven’s sake. I’d like to live long enough to have a kid someday.”

Hemingway contrived to ignore her, probably out of spite, Julie thought. After what seemed a long time, his speed decreased slowly to an acceptable level.

“So this is what it’s like to grow old,” he muttered.

He didn’t seem to be kidding so she didn’t laugh. She tried to summon up some feeling for him, without success. She had worked for him for more than five years without making any sort of meaningful connection. She realized that if she decided to quit, just walk away today, it would be with absolutely no regrets. Hemingway might be feeling what it’s like to grow old, but she felt as if she were waking from a medically induced coma.

Hemingway glanced her way again. “How d’you imagine St. Vincent knew about the connection between Whitman and Sydny?”

Julie shrugged. “There could be any number of ways.”

“But in light of what you told me, his interest must only have been very recently piqued.”

Julie instantly picked up on his meaningful look. “Our briefings.”

Hemingway pounded the steering wheel with his fist. “Oh, the stones on him. The fucker’s had my office bugged.”

*   *   *

“Eddy. Do you mind if I call you Eddy?” Without waiting for an answer, Whitman took Dante by the elbow, steered him past the wrecked helo, still smoking, its half-melted, contorted metal fuselage creaking like an old man’s bones as it cooled.

“Before you talk to us, there’s something I’d like you to see.”

At the site of the three graves he stopped, positioning Dante at the foot of the one grave still uncovered. Down at the bottom lay Seiran el-Habib, bound hand and foot, his mouth stuffed with a filthy cloth. He stared up at the two men with deadened eyes.

“Looks like he’s had a bad time of it, doesn’t it?” Whitman said.

“That’s because he has,” Flix said. He bumped into Dante, causing him to stagger forward, teeter on the edge while Whitman held him tight by the back of his collar. “Not a pretty sight, is he?”

Charlie came up beside him. “And there but for the grace of God go you.”

“She’s right.” Whitman dragged Dante back from the brink, let go of his collar. “Now you have some serious talking to do.”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Dante said.

“That’s the bullshit el-Habib tried to feed us,” Flix said. “Now look at the poor fucker, lying in his own grave.” He bumped Dante again. “That what you want?”