Brad had left the family with the notion that he’d been called to Washington, D.C., as a consultant for a government fishing project. It was all highly secret stuff, and he couldn’t tell them more than that. During training, the team had been allowed to write one letter a week to their families, carefully scripted, censored at times, but the group had been permitted unlimited mail from home, sent to an anonymous post office box. Joanna Bukowski Hudson had written that Jared had begun to build them a fine new house with five bedrooms, a master for her and her husband, three for the children, one reserved for guests—“and one for you, Brad, when you come home.” There would be four—four!—bathrooms. “No more sharing one tub and sink,” his mother had written, and there would be a proper dining room and a screened porch to sit in summer. The exchange of letters had been designed to weed out members of the team whose homesickness was too powerful to overcome. None of them had fallen for the ploy, even when they were allowed to call home one last time the day before they left for England. They were told to say they would be secluded for a while on business crucial to the nation’s interest and unable to be reached, but a government official would contact the families from time to time to assure them that all was well. They were not to worry.

Beata had asked Brad to bring her a present when he came home. His mother had posed the usual maternal questions of concern, but Brad had sensed a deeper worry that he was involved in something more perilous than the discussion of fish. She did not press him. She understood that her son was engaged in what he believed he must do. “Will you be home to serve as Jared’s best man?” she had asked. Probably not, Brad told her. They were not to delay the wedding for his sake.

Bobby had said, “You’re going somewhere dangerous, aren’t you?” in a voice as quiet and level as his gaze when aiming a question.

“Yes,” Brad had said, “but let’s keep that between us men.”