Eady ignored him. He continued his monologue, drinking and looking toward the window. “At the Agency, we did exactly what Terry Krieger is doing. Or tried to. And who benefited? No one! We fucked it up, over and over. Say what you will, but Terry Krieger has vision. War is octagonal now. A multidimensional puzzle. Krieger versus Krieger versus Krieger. What value do I have in a world like that? What legacy do I leave?” Eady smiled. “But then I found one. I gave the puzzle master a piece he didn’t have.”

“You sit here on your gentleman’s farm ordering the murder of innocent people to pad your fucking bank account? To feel meaningful? You recruited me with that song and dance about taking on Hitler, doing good in this twisted world. You are one of them, no better than the leg breakers I grew up with. Worse. You deserve what’s coming to you.”

Eady leaned forward in his chair and peered out the window. “You came alone?”

“Nobody’s in my truck, Vance.”

“But I haven’t much time?”

Klay stared at him.

Eady got to his feet, then bent over slowly and picked up his fishing hat. Beneath it a Browning Hi-Power pistol lay coiled like a rattlesnake.

Eady looked down at the pistol.

He put the hat on and crossed to the sink, leaving the pistol on the chair. He picked up a bottle of orange juice from beside the sink and returned it to the refrigerator. He put a loaf of bread back in the bread box. “You could have your Pulitzer for this, Tom, if you play it right. It’s not too late. This story could have a different ending. Nobody would need to know. I’d support you, and Barrow would find a way to make it disappear. PGM will make you a hero. We can celebrate Hungry . . . her sacrifice. You’re a damn good journalist,” he said, with a question in his face.

Klay picked up his backpack. “It’s over.”

Eady sighed. The old man walked into an alcove beside the refrigerator, sat down on a bench, and began removing his loafers and socks. He reached for his waterproof boots. His hands were trembling.

“You didn’t kill him,” Eady said, getting to his feet.

“I know that. You did.”

“Not the Kenyan,” Eady said. “The boy.”

“The boy?”

“The woman in Jakarta was one of ours. She drugged you. We found a body at the morgue, tossed it under your car.”

Klay felt life rush from his body like a tide. His heart dropped, his stomach fell, his legs turned as flaccid as seaweed. He saw the broken body of a dead boy lying on a damp street. The loss was real but it had not been Klay’s fault. In place of darkness, Klay felt a sublime emptiness. He had not killed that child.