“We do know the cost. If it got out Terry Krieger was playing varsity for more than one team, well, that’s the kind of thing not even a presidential pardon can help with. Avoiding life in prison, or the death penalty—that would be worth $75 million to him. Yessir. Hungry Khoza’s intel put Vance Eady into a whole new class altogether.”

“I was your bait,” Klay said.

“You want a drink?”

Barrow pressed a button on the arm of his chair. A door opened in the back of the plane. A large man appeared. Klay recognized him as one of the men who’d subdued Thabo to enter his prison cell. “Sir?”

“Troy, bring Tom and me a couple of bourbons. Booker’s, isn’t it? And some picky things, nuts or something. And let’s cut him loose.”

Troy unlocked Klay’s restraints. Barrow didn’t speak again until they had been served their drinks and snacks, and Troy had returned to the back of the plane. Then he raised his glass. “To the Confession Club,” he said acidly.

When Klay didn’t touch his glass, Barrow set his own on the table, too. “Beginnings,” Barrow said. “Best place to start in my opinion. This whole thing begins with an accident. One of our people gets dragged by her husband to one of those Washington, DC cocktail parties nobody likes. Her husband’s a tax accountant, so it’s worse than usual. She’s had her fill of double declining balances or whatever those people talk about. She’s at the bar, getting herself another gin and tonic, when she overhears this British fella saying how he runs a sniper operation overseas. Says he picks the targets, his man over there in Africa pulls the trigger for him. Takes out bad men all over the world, he says. Goes on and on about it. Well, she doesn’t realize it’s just some magazine editor talking metaphorically. She files a report like she’s supposed to. We put some people on it, track down your Mr. Porfle. Find out he works at The Sovereign. Figure out his assassin is you.” Barrow ate a handful of nuts.

“I’m not an assassin,” Klay said, taking a drink of bourbon.

Barrow’s mouth was full. He nodded. “At Langley,” he continued, “everybody’s in their silo. You come up as Vance Eady’s asset. So does Porfle.”