“You got the job done, Alex. HRT was very impressed. So was I.”

I sat down and poured myself coffee. I knew it was “help yourself” and no formalities with Burns. “You’re spreading the word . . . because you have such big plans for me?” I asked.

Burns laughed in his usual conspiratorial way. “Absolutely, Alex. I want you to take my job.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “No, thank you.” I sipped the coffee, which was dark brown, a little bitter, but delicious—almost as good as Nana Mama’s. Well, maybe half as good as the best in Washington. “You care to share any of your more immediate plans with me?” I asked.

Burns laughed again. He was in a good mood this morning. “I just want the Bureau to operate simply and effectively, that’s all. It’s the way it was when I ran the New York office. I’ll tell you what I don’t believe in: bureaucrats, and cowboys. There are too many of both in the Bureau. Especially the former. I want street smarts on the street, Alex. Or maybe I just want smarts. You took a chance yesterday, only you probably didn’t see it that way. There were no politics for you—just the right way to get the job done.”

“What if it hadn’t worked?” I asked as I set my coffee down on a coaster emblazoned with the Bureau’s emblem.

“Well, hell, then you wouldn’t be here now and we wouldn’t be talking like this. Seriously, though, there’s one thing I want to caution you about. It may seem obvious to you, but it’s a lot worse than you imagine. You can’t always tell the good guys from the bad ones in the Bureau. No one can. I’ve tried, and it’s almost impossible.”

I thought about what he was implying—part of which was that Burns already knew that one of my weaknesses was to look for the good in people. I understood it was a weakness sometimes, but I wouldn’t change, or maybe I couldn’t change.

“Are you a good guy?” I asked him.

“Of course I am,” Burns said with a wholesome grin that could have landed him a starring role on The West Wing. “You can trust me, Alex. Always. Absolutely. Just like you trusted Kyle Craig a few years back.”

Jesus, he was giving me the shivers. Or maybe the director was just trying to get me to see the world his way: Trust no one. Go to the head of the class.

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

AT A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN, I was on my way down to Quantico. Even after my “final” in Baltimore, I still had a class on “Stress Management and Law Enforcement.” I already knew the operative statistic: FBI agents were five times more likely to kill themselves than to be killed in the line of duty.