Dickhead, she thought, showing he could do what he wanted. It was O/S modus operandi all the way. She remembered when she was an analyst. Anytime a security officer visited the branch, there was more fear than if a Russian had strolled into the section. They relished finding a safe open at the wrong time, or a classified document in the wrong pile. They chased after the slightest infractions. A totalitarian environment for the protectors of democracy.

The car stopped at the main entrance. The driver nodded toward the door on her side.

“Guess they think you don’t have to escort me all the way,” she said.

The security officer did not reply. She got out of the car.

“You do remember hitting my car?” she asked. Now the Dart was ruined.

“Yes,” he said. “You called the number I gave you, and everything was taken care of.”

Not going to get any more conversation out of him, she thought. She walked into CIA headquarters.

In the outer office of the director’s suite, Lancette stared at the photographs on the wall. They showed young Chinese men and women protesting in Tianamen Square. The photos had been taken by a student leader whom the CIA had helped escape from Beijing after the tanks were sent in. On Lancette’s first trip to Wenner’s office, he explained his reason for placing these photographs on the wall: They were a reminder of the good the Agency can do.

Viv Novek was on the phone, rearranging Wenner’s schedule. He needed to move his appointment with the chief of the French service. He wanted to keep his promised afternoon visit to a Washington high school. (Lancette imagined the questions he would face: Did the CIA kill Kennedy? Why does the government suppress information about UFOs? Does the Agency deal drugs? Did the CIA kill Hanover?) And he wanted a full briefing from the IATF on the latest in the investigation.

Novek raced through a series of calls to reconstruct his day. Then she ordered flowers to be sent, in Wenner’s name, to Dunne’s hospital room.

“Just terrible, just terrible, what happened to Mr. Dunne,” Novek said to Lancette. “Did you ever hear from Mr. Grayton? He was just on the phone with the director.”

“Yes, we had dinner.”

“And?”

“We’ve been busy since then.”

“Yes, sorry to hear about your accident. Seems like everyone is having a run of bad luck lately.”

The phone rang. Wenner was ready to see Lancette. He was at his desk, wearing half-moon reading glasses and poring over audit records. In the corner of the room, a television was tuned to CNN, with the sound off. A reporter was interviewing a Vietnamese woman. The legend on the screen read, “Arlington, Virginia.”

Wenner did not look up from the papers.