“I’m sorry the world works that way. It does in Texas, anyway.”

A minor quake must have erupted deep inside St. Vincent because his lips curled, producing a thin smile. “But we’re not in Texas anymore, Toto.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” St. Vincent said, “I’d like you to work for me.”

“I already have a job, thanks.”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that. Nothing about what I’m proposing would impact your current position in the least.”

“All due respect, that’s fucking difficult to believe.”

St. Vincent chuckled. He lifted an arm briefly, waggled a forefinger. “I knew I had chosen the right person.”

“For what?”

“Oh, nothing much.” St. Vincent’s voice was as nonchalant as a vacationer ordering a frozen daiquiri from a passing waiter.

He rose now, sauntered about the room, which was illuminated by the oblong of light spilling in from the area around the nurses’ station, which was, Orteño noted, still as quiet as the grave. He paused in front of one of those meaningless prints seen in every mid-level hotel room in the Third World.

With hands clasped behind his back, he said, as if to himself, “I wonder who picks out these things? Some anonymous drone sitting in some dusty back office somewhere, paging through catalogs of this crap.” He grunted. “But he must have an eye for it, don’t you think? I mean, not a single one of these prints ever looks out of place.”

He turned abruptly and addressed Orteño. “This is what I want you to do for me, Felix. Be this print on the wall—the print that blends in so completely that no one gives him a second thought or look. Think you can do that for me?”

The cold and squirmy thing in Orteño’s stomach that had announced itself at St. Vincent’s appearance began to move, and it wasn’t from the crummy hospital food. “Eyes and ears, is that it?”

The sun seemed to shine on St. Vincent’s face. “Precisely.”

“Report to you.”

“Me and me alone,” he nodded.

“What are you looking for?”

“Anything,” St. Vincent said. “Anything out of the ordinary.” He approached the bed again, but this time did not bother to sit. “Your last brief had a breach, Felix. A rather serious one, I’m afraid. Was it NSA or Universal Security Associates?” He bent forward slightly in order to emphasize what he said next. “We need to get this thing under control, pronto. Get me?”

“I do. But there’s not enough money in the world.”

“I appreciate that, Felix, more than you know,” St. Vincent said mildly, “but there’s a very bad apple hidden somewhere. You and I are going to make applesauce of it, get me?” He smiled. “In any event, money doesn’t enter into this equation.”

“You’re asking me to spy on my own people.”

“I’m asking you to help me ferret out a traitor.”

Flix’s eyes narrowed. “Work for the NSA?”

“Does that matter? Since you already do, albeit indirectly.”

Flix laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me?”