“The only thing missing here,” Charlie said, looking around as she handed him back his mobile across their plates of eggs and bacon, “is a juke playing ‘Begin the Beguine.’”

He met her frank gaze. “‘These Foolish Things,’ more like it.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The waitress came and refilled their coffee cups without being summoned. Whitman was a regular. The door opened, letting in the golden late-morning sunlight along with a young couple with their arms around each other.

“There but for fate go we,” Charlie said.

Whitman strained and failed to read her inflection. She had always been something of an enigma to him. Just one of the things he loved about her, one of the things that had driven him away.

“We deploy in thirty-six hours,” he said.

His change of direction was obvious, not to mention unsurprising. She decided to go with the flow. “To take apart a soft target.”

Whitman went back to his eggs. His bacon was already gone.

*   *   *

“She’s better, yes?” St. Vincent said as he walked with Flix out of the Bethesda Institute of Mary Immaculate.

There was no sign of Sister Margaret, or anyone else for that matter, out in the semicircular driveway. Just St. Vincent’s SUV and an ambulance. Beyond, the staff parking lot was all but full.

“You’ll take good care of her until I get back, no more drugs,” Flix said. It wasn’t a question.

“That’s part of our bargain.” St. Vincent stopped by the side of the SUV. “Just make sure you fulfill your end of it.”

“No need to remind me,” Flix said.

St. Vincent opened the passenger door and Flix ducked his head, about to climb in.

“Watch out!” St. Vincent said as he plunged the needle of a syringe into the side of Flix’s neck.

St. Vincent caught Flix as he collapsed. His driver was already at his side. Together, they hauled Flix to the rear of the ambulance. St. Vincent slammed his hand against the double doors. They opened, revealing a pair of young men in nurses’ uniforms. They took possession of Flix, transferring him to the collapsible gurney inside.

“He’s all yours, Doc,” St. Vincent said when Paulus Lindstrom’s pale face appeared in the doorway.

“What did you inject him with?” Lindstrom asked.

“A synthetic form of curare concocted by our Psy-Ops division.”

“What if he remembers the needle?” Lindstrom asked in a none-too-steady voice.

“If he remembers anything it’ll be me shouting ‘Watch out!’ When he wakes up, the nurse in his room at Walter Reed will assure him that he hit his head while getting into the SUV and suffered a mild concussion. End of story.”

“You’d better be right.”