He knew she’d come this way as before, unannounced, so that nobody would feel the need to make preparations, and in a cheap rental car, this one in an even more insane shade than the last, some kind of econo Chevy that pushed its underpowered way over the crest and into the yard.

The same old Janet got out, no more chic or polished up than the last time, in jeans and a sweater under some kind of waxed outdoorsy jacket. As usual, running shoes, as if she still had a marathon to run when she’d just finished one.

“Well, hey,” he called.

“Was in the neighborhood,” she said, “thought I’d drop by.”

“Yeah, I’m halfway between the 7-Eleven and the dry cleaners.”

She laughed. “Well, it’s a big neighborhood.”

He didn’t rise; he couldn’t. She bent and hugged him, he nodded toward a chair nearby, and she pulled it over.

“So, how’s the hero?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Ask him, if you can find one. I just pulled a trigger.”

“Knowing he’d be pulling a trigger too.”

“Didn’t think that far ahead.”

They caught up. The news was good, as everyone had prospered. Nick got to retire again, this time as an Assistant Director, a goal finally achieved. Neill and Chandler got promotions, commendations, and Glory Wall photos with Mogul. Mr. Gold was back in the black cube, and even Cohen was respectful—at least for a little while.

“All you got was a bullet,” Janet said.

“I’m a big boy. It’s okay.”

Health notes: his progress, his mood, his day-to-day, his expected recovery rate.

“I’ll be back on the horse in three months. Not sure about the motorcycles. Doctors do not like motorcycles. I’ve recently started working in the shop again—you know, the crazy gun tinkering that I enjoy. Still be a few weeks before I can get behind a rifle. Lucky he nicked me in my left shoulder, not the right.”

“Some nick,” she said.

And finally: the thing itself. Who was behind it, who put up the money? The Iranians facilitated it and supported it, but nobody at the CIA thought it was their sort of operation. They sensed a bigger, smarter state actor, maybe a Putin, drawing on five centuries of Russian intelligence tradecraft. The Chinese? They were that good, so that was a possibility. Or maybe some “friend” who saw the ingredients on the table to take an ally down hard and move to the front of the line. Anyway, a joint Bureau–Agency task force was on it.

“Tell me your thoughts,” she said, “who saw it as a possibility, where it could have come from. Is there anything like it?”