“Then let me suggest a radical diagnosis: burnout.”

“That’s part of it. But there’s more. When I’m honest with myself, I know that.”

“You’re not always honest with yourself?” she asked.

“That’s a hard one, don’t you think? How can you tell if you’re honest with yourself? Say you’re really good at spinning the truth, then how can you?”

“You just can. In the CIA they say they want us to be objective analysts. Just the facts, ma’am. But the whole weight of the culture, of the bureaucracy, is to produce material that pleases whoever is above you. The President or just the guy who can give you a promotion. Still, you know damn well when you’re pushing a piece of evidence too far or ignoring information that contradicts what you believe—or want to believe. I’ve seen a lot of smart and good people who act as if they really do believe their own tilted reports. But I have to think that at one level they know what they’re doing, that …”

She thought for a second.

“That they’re aware they’re juggling the truth. It’s not that they’re liars. But from their perspective they’re—let’s be kind—animating the truth with other concerns. For noble reasons, of course. Nobody likes to think of themselves as—”

“A shit,” he said.

Lancette laughed and lifted her glass.

“Exactly. The human capacity for self-justification is endless.”

He clinked his glass against hers, and Addis waved to Rolando and ordered another round.

On the way out, they passed a group of twenty-somethings heading toward the dance room on the second floor.

“Do you like to dance?” Lancette asked.

“‘He dances like an epileptic string bean.’ That’s what a writer for Vanity Fair wrote about me during the campaign. I made the mistake of letting him come out with us one of the few nights we took time off. Since he proceeded to get drunk at world-record speed, I always thought his observation was—”

“Enhanced?”

“Precisely. Not exactly the truth, but …”

“Not exactly not not the truth?”

“Right,” he said. “Right, not not the truth. I like that.”

They walked out into the night. The air held a cool moistness. In the breeze he could smell the trees of nearby Rock Creek Park. He was enjoying the buzz—from the wine and from her. Let’s just ignore the remark about her girlfriend, he told himself.

They crossed Columbia Road and passed a crowd of African diplomats heading toward a world beat club.

“Actually,” he said, “I do have a story you haven’t already read about.”

“Really? I hope it’s not classified. I don’t think I want to know any more state secrets.”

“Don’t think this one belongs to the state.”

“Then, feel free,” she said and smiled.

Shit, why the fuck not?

“Remember Donny Lee Mondreau?” he asked.