“Yes, but it isn’t the truth.”

“What?”

“Seiran el-Habib is exactly where he has been, in that villa your team assaulted.”

Whitman couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Then why would—”

“An action directive from POTUS via NSA, to bring in a major success.”

“Bringing Seiran el-Habib in would be a major success.”

“Except that the crisis in Lebanon has taken precedence.”

“Is this something you have verified independently or are you just parroting what Hemingway told you?” Cutler had sold this very same line to Whitman.

Julie’s silence spoke volumes.

Whitman sat back against the cushion. “Capturing and wringing Seiran el-Habib for intel would give POTUS more airtime than any target we could find in Lebanon,” he said. “They’re all lying. The question is why.”

At that moment, the car slowed, pulled into the curb, and stopped. “You’re home.” Whitman opened the curbside door. “A piece of advice, Julie. Never let them see what you’re thinking.”

“That’s so basic. Keep a poker face.”

“Believe it or not,” Whitman said, “there are agents—the great ones—who can read a poker face, or at least infer from it some things better left secret. No, what you want to show is emotion.”

“What emotion?”

“It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s not the one they’re expecting. It’s simple misdirection—a form of sleight of hand, the illusionist’s most intimate companion. You see what I mean?”

“I do, and I’m grateful.”

“One more thing. Pushing papers, as you put it, has two sides. Those papers contain important information. Information is power, Julie. Give that notion a thought.”

She nodded. “I will.” She hesitated as she was about to clamber over his legs.

As if intuiting her thoughts, he said, “What is it?”

“I should tell you…” Her head swung away as she stared out the side window. It was suddenly very quiet inside the car. Her head swung back and her eyes engaged with his. “I’ve been sleeping with your boss.”

Whitman seemed not to react at all. “You’re not surprised?” she asked.

Instead of giving her a direct answer, he said, “You’re Cutler’s conduit?”

“You could say that.”

“That sounds about right.”

“What does that mean?”

“Have a good think before you decide to continue, that’s all I’m saying.”

She opened her mouth to say something, then decided against it.

“Okay, then.” He grinned and said in his best Hollywood Western accent, “Now git along, little doggie.”

As she climbed over him, he added sternly, “This never happened.”

She stood on the pavement and glanced back at him. “What never happened?” She gave him a complicit smile, still digesting everything he had told her. She caught a crescent of his face in half-light, before the door slammed shut and the car, nosing out into the silent and deserted street, continued its mysterious journey through the city.

Her mind still buzzing, she crossed the pavement, went up the stairs to her building. Behind her, the eastern sky had turned the color of an oyster shell.