“I’ve been in this world a little while, and I still ask, how good are they or, I guess I should say, we? Like could anyone I’ve met in this line of work have pulled off something like the Kennedy assassination and have it never come out? I think the real secret is, we’re not that good. But every once in a while, they make a rabbit jump out of a hat—an invisible rabbit no one can see. Except those who are screwed by it. They overthrow a government. They raise a submarine from the ocean floor. They steal a document on the negotiating strategy of a European trade ministry. They get a foreign newspaper to print what they want printed. They deliver arms to secret soldiers in a jungle in fucking nowhere, using money Congress thinks is going to buy another satellite. So how good are they? I don’t know. It’s not inconceivable that the same bunch that installs a bug in the Chinese consulate in Paris could miss a storage room. Never forget one thing: We’re more of a government bureaucracy than anyone thinks.”

“Thanks for the lecture,” he said. “Don’t you think we should … ?”

She went back to the crates. She had to hold the material toward the middle of the room to catch the light coming from the hallway. One crate contained shoeboxes stuffed with photos and letters. Another had papers from college and medical school. One file contained typewritten pages of poetry. High school? she wondered. College? More recently?

This is like doing an autopsy, she thought.

Lancette searched a container stuffed with old newspapers and magazines. Beneath all this were two composition books bound together by a rubberband. Neither had any markings on the cover. She opened the first book. The page read: “Security briefing. Man—mid-50s. One arm. East European accent.” These were Walters’s CIA journals.

“They really are not all that good,” she said softly.

She held the book upside down and shook it. Nothing. She did the same with the other book. A folded piece of paper fell to the floor.

“Not that good at all,” she said louder.

Addis turned around. She read the paper: a copy of Walters’s one-page ICEMAN report. On CIA letterhead. Signed by Walters. Initialed by Dr. Blum’s secretary. She looked at the last entries in the second composition book. “Meeting with J. L.,” one read. A subsequent note said, “More questions about memo.”

The memo and supporting records, Lancette thought.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

The light in the hallway went off. The room turned black.

“Shit,” she said and stood still.

“Now what?” Addis asked. He could barely see her. A low red glow from an exit sign down the hallway trickled into the storage room. A fire door slammed. Opening or closing? Addis wondered. They heard footsteps on the concrete floor.

“Close the door,” he said.