Except for a couple of hours when I went home to see the kids, I remained inside the Hoover Building for the next day and a half. So did a lot of other agents on the case, even Monnie Donnelley, who was as emotionally invested in this as anybody. We continued to collect information, especially about Russian mobsters in the States, but mostly we waited for a message from the Wolf’s Den to Mr. Potter. A yes or a no, a go or a no go. What was the bastard waiting for?

I talked to Jamilla several times—good talks—also to Sampson, the kids, Nana Mama. I even talked to Christine. I had to find out where her head was at about Little Alex. After our talk, I wasn’t sure if she knew, which was the most disturbing thing of all. I began to detect an ambivalent tone in her voice when she spoke about raising Alex, even though she said she was prepared to sue for custody. Considering all she’d been through, it was hard for me to stay angry at her.

I would rather have given up my right arm than my little boy, though. Just thinking about it gave me a headache that throbbed continuously and made the long wait for a resolution even worse.

The phone on my desk rang around ten on the second evening, and I picked up right away. “Waiting for my call? How’s it going?” It was Jamilla, and though she sounded close, she was all the way across the country in California.

“Sucks,” I said. “I’m stuck in a small windowless room with eight smelly FBI hackers.”

“That good, huh? So I take it the Wolfman hasn’t gotten back with an answer.”

“No. And it’s not just that.” I told Jamilla about my phone call with Christine.

She wasn’t nearly as sympathetic to Christine as I was. “Who the hell does she think she is? She walked out on her little boy.”

“It’s more complicated than that,” I said.

“No, it isn’t, Alex. You always like to give people the benefit of the doubt. You think people are basically good.”

“I guess I do. That’s the reason I can do my job. Because most people are basically good and they don’t deserve the shit that gets heaped on them.”

Jamilla laughed. “Well, neither do you. Think about that. Neither do Little A., Damon, Jannie, Nana Mama. Not that you asked for my opinion. I’ll shut up now. So what is going on with the case? Change the subject to something more pleasant.”

“We’re waiting on this Russian hood and his creeped-out friends. I still don’t understand why he’s involved in a kidnapping ring.”

“You’re at FBI headquarters, the Hoover cube? That’s where you’re calling from?”