Hanley finished his spiel by saying, “Denny Carmichael was not an evil man. I didn’t like him, never did. But that was because his methods were too top-down. He thought he was a puppet master and a king, and that’s not what this place needs at all. Everything bad that has happened, everything classified you’ve learned about in the past week . . . it was all Denny Carmichael. When he died . . . I’d like to hope that could all die with him.” He spoke in a pleading voice now. “Don’t destroy this Agency by reporting the crimes of a man who no longer needs to be stopped. Instead, watch this Agency closer than anyone in the Fourth Estate has ever watched us. Make sure I don’t become Denny. You can have a real positive impact on this organization, on this nation.” Hanley winked. “And you can probably write some damn fine stories in the process.”

Catherine kept her poker face, but she had already decided to be extremely sparing in her reporting. She knew the power of the media to destroy, and she knew that despite all the nuance in the world, a thorough piece on the front page of the Washington Post about rogue bands of assassins killing their way across the nation’s capital under orders from the number two man at the CIA would cause politicians to gut the Agency down to nothing.

She wouldn’t do that.

That the new guy running NCS just offered her unparalleled access almost caused her to jump out of her chair.

Instead, she forced him into specifics, hammered out dates for meetings and general ground rules for sharing information, and then she kept her poker face as long as she could. Finally she reached out a hand. “I look forward to following your tenure here very closely, Director Hanley.”

Hanley shook her hand, and she could see on his face that he recognized he’d just paid dollars to someone ready to accept dimes.

“I bet you do, Ms. King.”

—

Arthur Mayberry opened the wooden door to his home, but he left the storm door locked. Through the Plexiglas and bars he saw a white male in his thirties standing in the morning sunshine. He wore a suit and tie, and a serious expression.

The media had moved from his sidewalk a week or so after Jeff Duncan nearly blew up all of Columbia Heights, but these damn cops just kept coming.

Bernice appeared at Mayberry’s side just as he said, “I’ve told you boys everything I know.”

“I’m not here to ask questions.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

The young man held out an envelope. “You can take this, and not ask me any questions. To be honest, I don’t care for them any more than you.”

Mayberry looked at the envelope. “Well, what is it?”

“That’s a question, Mr. Mayberry. Please pay attention.”