The man slid in. Like Swagger, he wore sunglasses. Like Swagger, a short-sleeved shirt, open at the neck, pale and gossamer, loosely woven for comfort. Swagger wore a Razorbacks ball cap, while Gold wore a tropical fedora with a black band. He had on dark pants, shined loafers, and a Breitling watch with a green band. No color showed on his face, an ovoid specimen of milky whiteness built around a prim and unexpressive mouth. He looked like the rare man whose tombstone might read “I wish I spent more time at the office.”

“Thanks for the chat,” Swagger said. “I hope you find what I have for you useful.”

“I’ve seen the FBI file on you,” said Gold. “You have contributed much. Myself, I’m really just a clerk. For me, courage is not a job requirement. But I consider myself, nonetheless, of some utility.”

“I was told by my daughter that you’re the George Smiley of your organization. I guess that means ‘a famous spy.’”

“Something like that. I lack a beautiful wife, however, and an encyclopedic memory. And unlike Smiley, I’m not a cynic, I’m still a humble pilgrim. By the way, I found your daughter extremely bright. I’m sure you’re very proud.”

“I am.”

Gold nodded. “Please proceed.”

“Is this place secure? Can I say a certain name that might be classified?”

“You are actually surrounded by young members of our counterterror staff. This is their favorite kind of assignment.”

Swagger took a single breath before beginning. “Let me begin by asking, do you have familiarity with the name Juba? As in Juba the Sniper.”

Gold sat back coolly, betraying no surprise. Yet the microlanguage of his facial architecture—so subtle, few would have noticed—communicated a response. A stimulation. Then it was gone.

“A very interesting gentleman.”

“Ain’t he just?” said Swagger.

“I must warn you, much of what has been offered to us in re Juba over the years has turned out sourly. He is surrounded by misinformation. The man himself is quite clever in his security arrangements, as are his masters. This includes false trails, inaccurate leaks, bogus sightings, and the like. We have gone up many alleys to find them blind. He knows many things which we would like him to share with us—and I’m sure we could persuade him—but he seems more a myth than a man. A phantasm.”

“You’re telling me I could have been suckered, and this is just mischief, meant to eat up energy and leave everyone frustrated in the end.”

“It might even be a distraction. You can never be sure. A whisper of Juba’s presence orients us in a certain direction, and he operates in the opening left by our commitment to that lure. It has happened before.”

“In other words, in this game I am an amateur and may be full of shit.”

“With all due respect, at this stage anything is possible.”