“What I might do. But I’m neck-deep—or going to be—in Kelly’s shit.”

“You going to tell them?”

“Maybe. My suggestions don’t make the top of the list these days.”

Dunne gulped down the water.

“Wife will be worried. We’ll keep in touch, okay?”

“Sure,” Addis said. “If I can be—”

“I don’t think anyone can be.”

After Addis locked the door, the phone rang. Go away, he said to himself. Everyone. Please.

After the fourth ring, the answering machine took the call.

“Nick, hi, it’s me. Just calling to say hello. Just wanted to see how you are … Nick, I’m so sorry. I won’t bother you again. I just want to …” She hung up.

Eric jumped on the desk. Addis pushed the cat off the papers. Why bother with all this now? he asked himself. But he knew why Margaret wanted to, and he wished he didn’t. He took out his pocket calendar and looked at the days ahead.

12 - CIA Headquarters June 25

12

CIA Headquarters June 25

“It could be a problem,” Julia Lancette said.

She looked for a response from Timothy Wenner, the CIA director. Instead of speaking, he bit down on his pipe. It was unlit. Doctor’s orders. She could hear him wheeze.

“Justice is proceeding with it,” she continued. “Judge won’t post bail, so he’s still in Dade County lockup. Hasn’t said anything yet about his past. Maybe he’s just waiting.”

Wenner tapped the folder on his desk. Today’s headache. The President had been assassinated. The country was still mourning. But all the other shit didn’t stop flowing.

He stood up. His shirttail hung behind him, his tie was crooked. He walked—actually, it was more of a shuffle that moved his large figure—toward the window of his seventh-floor office. Lancette recalled a joke well known through the ranks at Langley. What’s the difference between Director Wenner and a sack of potatoes? Sorry, our satellite imaging is not that sophisticated.

“And you’re sure?” He coughed.