There ensued a deathly silence during which Lindstrom was aware only of his rapid heartbeat and the breath sawing in and out of his half-open mouth.

“No I … No, of course not,” he said at length. “It’s just that I think you ought to know something.”

“And what might that be?” He raised a forefinger. “If it’s bad news…” There was no need to complete the sentence.

“No, no,” Lindstrom said hastily. “About the monkeys. I lost only one out of a hundred.”

“What happened to that one?” St. Vincent asked in the same tone he used to ask his manicurist to buff his nails.

Lindstrom’s face paled.

“Go on, Doctor, have at it. But you do know whatever you tell me won’t change my mind.”

“Of course.” Lindstrom ducked his head submissively, thinking, If I could kill anyone, it would be this man. Then he said, without any sense of melodrama, “The monkey ripped its own face off.”

* * *

Julie Regan listened for Omar Hemingway to return from lunch down in the bowels of NSA HQ, where all the bigwigs congregated like geese honking their arguments on what route to travel flying south. No one ever won or lost that argument; it was endless.

Julie herself had just finished her yogurt and fresh fruit, which she ate every working day, sitting at her desk. She did this so she could answer phones. Any call at any time might be important enough for her to alert her boss, drag him upstairs away from the constant honking.

Three days had gone by without her finding a proper opening to speak with Hemingway without arousing his suspicion. As her boss liked to joke: “Only the paranoid survive.” Only with him it wasn’t a joke. Anyone who worked for him who didn’t get that was out on their ear in no time.

Julie had been with him for six years, coming to him when she was still wet behind the ears. She got him instantly, and he got her. Soon after, she became his strong left hand. “I’ll keep my right, thank you very much,” he said, when he had summoned her to his office to anoint her. He raised her three pay grades, which was almost unheard of, sent her off on a week’s vacation, which, he said, was the last one she’d have for a long time. He hadn’t been kidding. Julie got Christmas and New Year’s off. Having no family to speak of, and her closeted husband out of town with his family in Missouri, she spent Thanksgivings with Hemingway, which was not nearly as bad as it sounded. Though he entertained few people, he was a tremendous host and, to her astonishment, an accomplished cook. She always stayed over, in the guest bedroom at the opposite end of the house from the master suite. He never once made a pass at her or said anything suggestive. There had been times when she’d wished he would. He had missed his chance, however, and now she had King Cutler to snuggle with. She was far safer with Cutler, anyway.