He went downstairs with the strong case to his old study, which had hardly been touched. Myra had never liked it—too cave-like for her, but he felt instantly at home again, his books still on the shelves. He pressed a hidden button and a bookcase swung outward, revealing a large safe. He opened it, stowed the strong case inside, locked it, and swung the bookcase back into place. He switched on the computer and checked his mail—he had kept the e-mail address mostly to deal with the house. When they had divorced, he had given Myra lifetime occupancy, but he had retained title and had gone on paying the utility bills, insurance, lawn service, and the maid who came in twice a week. He switched on his reading lamp, found a book he hadn’t read, and started it. He knew they would be here soon.

He had not long to wait. He heard a footstep on the front porch, and he switched off his lamp and stood behind the study door, perfectly still.

“Pretty quiet,” he heard a male voice say. “You check upstairs, I’ll look around for signs of life down here.” Footsteps went up the stairs, others around the living room and kitchen. A man came and stood in the study doorway and played a flashlight around the room. Footsteps descended the stairs, and the two men stood outside in the main hall and talked for a minute.

“I called at the real estate office,” one of them said, “and got a key. They’ve had some interest in the place, but not much. Nobody at the Agency would even look at it because it was associated with Rawls.”

“You think there’s a Russian radio hidden here somewhere?”

The other laughed. “No, our people went through the place thoroughly after Rawls was arrested and again after the woman died. It’s just a house. I ought to buy it myself. It’s less than five miles from the Agency.” The two men left.