“Yes?” Lindstrom was completely terrified now. Hemingway had never spoken to him in this manner.

“What largesse has been given you, Doctor, can be taken away.” He snapped his fingers, causing Lindstrom to start. “As quickly as that.”

Lindstrom blinked heavily, his version of a spit-take, and then the LED bulb went off in his head and he remembered every word, every intonation, facial expression, and bit of body language in reference to his recent conversation with Valerie Revere.

With these matters foremost in his mind, he arranged his face in what he could only hope was a smile, though he had no real way of knowing, and said, “What you want and what I can provide may be two very different animals, Mr. St. Vincent.”

St. Vincent regarded him for a moment before he burst into laughter. “You really are an odd duck, Doctor.”

“There is nothing odd about a duck,” Lindstrom said, a slight quaver in his voice ruining his facsimile of a smile. “Unless, of course, you are referring to the Madagascar pochard, the world’s rarest duck.”

“A Madagascar pochard,” St. Vincent repeated, as if he had just fallen down the White Rabbit’s hole.

“Indeed. By 1991, the pochard was considered extinct, until a flock of them was discovered in Lake Matsaborimena in northern Madagascar fifteen years later.”

“All very interesting,” St. Vincent said, “were I a conservationist.” His smile was all steel teeth. “Shall we press on, Doctor?”

“Ah, yes, you wish to know how the SUBNETS initiative is progressing.” SUBNETS was an acronym for System-Based Neurotechnology for Emerging Therapies. It had been begun in another section of DARPA as a way to help veterans overcome the stresses of combat: implanting electrodes in certain areas of the subject’s brain, it was hoped, would alleviate chronic pain and depression, as well as PTSD. But, according to Lindstrom, that was dark ages stuff. Going forward, his idea was to devise “an implantable platform technology for precise therapy in humans living with neuropsychiatric and neurological disease, including veterans and active duty soldiers suffering from mental health issues,” according to the abstract he had submitted to the powers that be at NSA, and for which he received funding.

He waved a pale hand. “It’s all in my weekly report. Or you can consult Mr. Hemingway’s files.”

“My files now, Doctor. In any event, I’m not interested in what’s in your weekly reports, nor am I interested in what you gab about with Omar Hemingway.” He stepped in closer, lowered his voice. “I want you to move forward on the Mobius Project.”

“What?” Lindstrom took a step back, as if he had been struck across the cheek. “My god, not here.” He looked around wildly.

St. Vincent came after him. “Listen, Doctor, my time is too precious to waste, am I making myself clear enough?”

Lindstrom swallowed hard, then said in a strained voice, loud enough for the scientists closest to him to hear. “Why, yes, I could do with a cup of coffee, thanks very much.” He stretched out an arm. “This way.”