“Well,” Klay said, “I hope you’re duly disappointed.”

“Oh. I would have to say, overall, yes, counselor, I am heavily fucking disappointed.” Botha sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “You’re a writer, but you couldn’t see the plot. You’re their agent, but you couldn’t figure out your mission. And you still don’t realize who you’re working for. So, now do you know yet what cage you’re in?”

“Who am I working for?”

Botha raised a finger and made a few circles with it pointed at the ceiling. “The fucking lord and master of us all.”

Klay could feel Botha’s rage. But there was something else. Botha didn’t just hate Terry Krieger. He feared him. Hate and fear, those fraternal twins, showed themselves bloodthirsty in Botha’s face. A man consumed by hate and fear lost his invisibility. For the first time, Klay could see Botha.

“Krieger put you up to all this, right?” Klay said.

Botha’s eyes darkened. Then, suddenly, he smiled. He wagged a finger at Klay. “You—” He grinned. “You might learn something useful yet.” He leaned forward and spoke slowly and quietly. “Remember I told you how Krieger killed that boy on the buffalo hunt. And that boy never knew he was fair game? What if that boy had known? Isaac was strong, quick. What if he had even fucking suspected? The old man Njovu carried a good knife. What if he had known what Terry had in mind for his son? Things might have gone differently, don’t you think?”

Botha sat back to let his lesson sink in, enjoying himself. This wasn’t merely a game for Botha. This was a big game hunt. Botha, the professional, tracking spoor, planning a kill. He was baiting Klay and exhausting him at the same time. To what end? Good tracking follows a trail. Great tracking leads it. Get in front of him, Klay told himself.

Klay moved his orange peels aside, drew three letters on the table with his finger. C. I. A. Pointed at Botha.

Botha smirked. “You Yanks are all the same. You think because it’s your eyes seeing it, it must be what it is.”

“What should I have seen, Botha?”

“I don’t know. You went to Kenya. What did you see?”

“My friend killed.”

“What else?”

“A politician killed.”

“And?”

“No elephant. Faulty technology. Perseus technology . . .”

“Then you go to the Philippines. Why?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You think those stories were random? He weaponized you. That’s what Tots does. You’re the pigeon in that diamond mine. The one who flew through the window for me. Little packet tied to your foot. They built the coop for you.” Botha looked around the warden’s office. “Fed you. Gave you water. Trained you up, eight kilometers a week, see how you’d fly.”