I’d certainly seen this kind of thing before. Kyle Craig alone had legions of fans, or disciples, as he liked to call them. But Patel was right. This had the potential to be something else again — a whole grassroots movement of people who saw nothing less than America at stake, and nothing short of wholesale violence as the only solution with a chance of working.

“Best way to stir the crazy pot?” she said over my shoulder. “Wrap your dogma in an American flag and wait to see who bites. Like I said — scary.”

Chapter 52

AROUND SEVEN THIRTY, Patel and I finally got up to go. As we did, though, she turned away from the door and toward me. The sudden look in her eyes was all but unmistakable — and it was scary in a whole other way.

“Have you ever had homemade chana masala?” she asked.

Still, I didn’t want to be too presumptuous. “Homemade? Never.”

“Because I’m a pretty good cook, despite appearances.” She gestured at her nondescript gray slacks and white blouse. “I think everyone here assumes I’m just some wonk who goes home to her seven cats and a Lean Cuisine every night.”

“I doubt that,” I said. Patel had always struck me as a classic diamond in the rough. She was the kind of woman who arrived at the office Christmas party all done up and dropped every jaw in the room.

“So, my car’s in the shop,” she went on. “I was thinking if you could save me the cab fare home, I’d pay you back with dinner.” Then she really threw me. Patel reached over and put her hand on top of mine. “Maybe even dessert,” she said. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re full of surprises,” I said, and we both laughed, a little nervously. “Listen, Anjali —”

“Oh God.” Her hand fell away. “It’s never good when they start with your name.”

“I’m in a relationship. We’re getting married.”

She nodded and started gathering up her stuff. “You know what they say about all the good men, right? Taken or gay. In fact, that’s going to be the title of my memoir. Think it will sell?”

This time we laughed for real. It cut right through the tension, which I think was nice for both of us.

“I appreciate the invitation,” I said, and meant it. If this were some other time in my life, I definitely would have been eating chana masala that night. Maybe dessert, too. “And I can still give you that ride if you want.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She tucked her laptop under her arm and held the conference room door for me. “If I’m not cooking, I’m going to stick around here and get some more work done. Meanwhile, if you wouldn’t mind forgetting we ever had this conversation —”