“That’s not what he told me,” Lancette said.

“That’s what’s in the cable. I checked with his branch chief. He told me that Walters is facing two administrative actions. One for being too forward with a patient. The child of a deputy station chief recently back from Indonesia. He touched this patient”—Wenner reached for a paper on his desk and read from it—“‘in inappropriate spots, including genitalia.’ In another instance, he recently returned from lunch too inebriated to perform his duties.”

Hell, Lancette thought, if every employee who ever did that was booted, the Agency would be radically downsized.

“They also suspect he was helping himself to samples from the pharmacy. Which might explain the memo he wrote in response to your request. It’s gibberish. Look at it.”

He handed her a document and waited as she read. It was one long paragraph, single-spaced, covering two pages. Walters claimed he had once met the assassin at a bar, that this person had told him that he was part of an off-the-books hit team directed by Wenner. In the memo, Walters said that his own life was in danger, and that he would cooperate in the investigation if the administrative actions against him were dropped.

“Did he show you this document?” Wenner asked.

“No,” Lancette said.

“He admitted to our officer in Burundi that he misled you.”

But he hadn’t, she thought. He had told her enough so she was able to find Dawkins.

“Ms. Lancette, you know what happens when you start investigating craziness. You establish a paper trail that will be misinterpreted for decades to come.”

There could be no greater nightmare for him, she thought, then to have the Agency linked to another presidential assassination—especially when his name would be associated with the conspiracy. Someone had played him well. Or was he allowing himself to be played?

“So no one at IATF knows about this?” she asked.

“I’ve discussed it with Mr. Grayton, and we agreed that allegations deemed worthless need not be officially presented to the task force.”

We agreed. She looked at Wenner’s eyes. They had the same distant appearance as always, as if he were searching for smudges on the wall at the opposite end of the room. We agreed. He and Grayton. Never hold anything back from me, he once had told her, I can always go back to Cal Tech and teach. This job needs me more than I need it. But Walters had known where to find Dawkins. His story—the one he told her—contained more than craziness.

“Director, I don’t want to challenge Mr. Grayton’s and your reading of the situation.” She paused.

“Then don’t,” he said.

“But Dr. Walters did tell me enough so I could locate Dawkins through that bar.”