“This town can be as dangerous as any other,” Charlie said flatly. “Just ask Mac.”

* * *

“That was our new hire,” Cutler said when he put down his mobile.

“Charlie?”

“She made Mac. She threatened to dump him into the Potomac.”

A wry smile crossed Whitman’s face. “She was never gonna do that, boss.”

“Maybe not, but I think she might have hurt him.” His hand cut through the air. “And cut the smirk, you look like a chimpanzee about to spit.”

The two men had repaired to the living room, where Cutler had been presenting the Lebanon brief for Red Rover, which was to terminate an al-Qaeda leader ID’d by NSA as Ibrahim Mansour. There were several fuzzy surveillance photos of Mansour, clearly shot through a telephoto lens while he was on the move. According to the brief, Mansour was in Beirut, recruiting locals to al-Qaeda’s world jihad. Again, according to NSA intel, ridding the world of Mansour would go a long way toward smoothing the Saudi’s ruffled feathers. Whitman did not have to be told that placating the Saudis was a major administration initiative, as it had been for past administrations, never mind that the 9/11 terrorists were Saudis.

The brief included the usual material: local leaders friendly to American interests, rendezvous and fallback points, recognition codes, lines of communication, exceedingly difficult in Lebanon—all the tedious but necessary information crucial to red-zone ops. There were no agents in place anywhere in Lebanon, which Whitman found particularly dispiriting.

“He’ll live,” Whitman said, “I’m sure.”

Cutler regarded him with a jaundiced eye. “You seem particularly sanguine about her reckless behavior.”

“It wasn’t reckless, boss. She was protecting herself.”

“She went way overboard.”

Whitman put down a map of Beirut he had been studying. “You’re just pissed that she made Mac and fucked him up. Stupid.”

Cutler blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You should be elated, boss. Charlie’s ours now. I told you she was better than anyone I’d ever met. Clearly, you didn’t believe me. Now you have the empirical evidence.”

* * *

“Sure, Adam’s a client of mine. A skip-tracer,” Sydny said. “He’s one of the really good ones.”

“Meaning?” Julie took back the photo of Whitman she had showed Sydny.

“He’s nice to me. He’s a nice guy.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Why is a reporter interested in this guy? Unless you’re not a reporter at all.”

Julie drank some of her coffee. “Okay, I’m not a reporter.”

Sydny stirred, as if she were about to take flight. “Who are you then?”

They were in a café not far from The Doll House, a low-lit, low-slung place with a hipster bartender and a pair of female baristas who looked like they were scarcely out of high school, if that. A burbling old-school juke was playing “Moon River.” Odd place.

You’d better get this right, Julie told herself, or the night will be a washout. “I’m a private detective, working for a client of Adam’s—a potential client, I should say. My client just wants to make sure she’s hiring the right person.”