She waited—no fucking way I’m getting out in this rain, she thought—and the other driver, a young man in a dark suit, came over, carrying an umbrella.

“You hurt?” he asked.

“No, but you should have paid more attention during surveillance training.”

He did not react.

“It’s a joke. I saw you turn out of the Agency after I did,” she said. “And you were way too close to me.”

“Sorry.”

He held the umbrella over her as she inspected the damage. The rear bumper was dented, the lights smashed, and the back corner crushed. But the car would still drive. She got back in her car and invited him to sit in the passenger seat. He declined and talked to her through the opened window.

“Well, all in the family, right?” she said. “What office are you in?”

He ignored the question.

“Should we trade insurance information and all that, or—”

“It will be taken care of,” he said. “Executive Insurance.”

She knew what he meant. That was the name of the Agency’s own insurance company. It covered employees who had to live or work under assumed names. It provided insurance for Agency cars and those registered to fronts.

“This isn’t a company car, so there better not be any problem.”

“Won’t be,” he said. “If there is, call this number.” He handed her a business card: no individual name, no company name—only a post office box address in suburban Virginia and a phone number.

“And your name?”

“Ask for Dell. But I’ll have Executive call you.”

“Then you’re going to need my number, right?”

“Yes.”

She gave him the information and he returned to his car. Fucking Agency, Lancette thought, too many weirdos who think all this is the real world. She saw that the collision had thrown her CIA gifts to the floor of the car. She gathered them and spotted a piece of paper sticking out of the shaving kit. It was a note folded in half. She opened it. On the top was a logo: “From the secret files of the KGB.” The message read, “We have to talk. LOC/Genealogy room, tonight 2030. Please.”

One message was on her voice mail when she returned to the office. Viv Novek, Wenner’s secretary, had called. Lancette rang her back.

“Nothing important, dear,” Novek said. “Just thought that you’d want to know. After Mr. Grayton finished his meeting with the director, he asked me a few questions about you. Must have been quite taken. That old popped button routine—”

“Mrs. Novek, I—”

“Don’t be so shy.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The usual. Who you were. Where you worked. I know I’m not supposed to say—but he is the deputy director of the FBI, after all—but just a little, not much. Said you were a former analyst the director had taken a fancy to, I said, and—”

“Thanks a lot.”