As usual, she heard Hemingway’s booming basso before she saw him. Quickly tossing the remnants of her Spartan lunch in the wastepaper basket, she was already standing when he entered the outer office, which was, in a way, her territory.

He eyed her judiciously. “Calls?”

“Six,” she said. “None urgent.”

He took the clutch of pink notes out of her outstretched hand without breaking stride and vanished into his sanctum. He left his door open, however, and several moments after she heard the desk chair squeak beneath his weight, he called her in.

“Close the door,” he said, as she crossed the threshold.

She did as he asked, thinking, Now, this is unusual. He has never had me in here while the door is closed, not even when he was anointing me.

Hemingway gestured. “Take a pew.”

Not waiting to see if she complied, he swiveled around, stared out his slit-like window, elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled, seeming in deep contemplation. Julie sat in a state of mild anticipation. What in the world could have provoked this behavior? she wondered. Did the honking downstairs finally come to an end? Had something been decided? Or—and here she felt a sudden dread chill her insides—had he somehow found out about her sexual liaison with King Cutler? Impossible, she reminded herself. Their security had been impeccable. But still … she knew, because she had heard Hemingway preach many times, that no security was ever absolute. Someone, somewhere was always devising a better mousetrap.

“I want to tell you about my best friend, Frankie. He wasn’t my high school basketball buddy, and he wasn’t my college roommate. We didn’t go through officer training together. It was the meat-grinder where we met: in-country. ’Nam. At the very edge of the map, where there are no rules, laws, or second chances. We met on the firing lines. In the ten days we were together, we killed more than two dozen North Vietnamese. He saved my life. And when he got shot in the hip I carried him to safety.”

Abruptly Hemingway swung back again to impale her with his eyes. “That’s the meaning of friendship, Julie. The meaning of loyalty. The compressed time of war makes for trust, makes for friends for life.”

Her head bobbed in silent assent.

“I trust you, Julie. I want you to know that.”

“Thank you, sir.” Her heart flipped over, thinking of her time screwing King Cutler. Why am I even doing it? she asked herself, although she already knew the answer. Self-esteem had always been a problem for her, no more so than in her sham of a marriage. But had her thought been correct? Did Hemingway know about her betrayal? All at once, she felt dirty, unworthy, humiliated, reactions all too familiar. “I appreciate your candor.”

“Luther St. Vincent. You know him?”

“I wouldn’t say know,” Julie said. “But he’s the head of Directorate N.”

“And a fucking pain in my ass, excuse my French.” Hemingway sighed. “Unfortunately, he not only outranks me, but he’s protected by the mandarins on high.” His hands curled into fists. “He’s taken a project away from me. A very important project. I’ve prepared for this contingency with King Cutler. But now I’ve been thinking that isn’t enough. St. Vincent has one weak spot—his bête noire, you could say. I need your help in this matter.”