When the news finally broke that Klay was a CIA asset, Porfle had sent him an email telling him he was fired. “Dear Mr. Klay,” it began. When the story subsequently went viral, Sharon had emailed him: “Tom! Come back! We want to give you your own column. ‘The Sovereign’s Agent.’ It will be your BRAND! I’ll send you a mock-up. What do you think?”

He declined.

The Agency’s plan had been to reengage with Krieger, to wrap him up in noncompetes and NDAs, overwhelm him with carrots and pretend they could control him. But Krieger had them by their secrets, and as long as that was the case, Klay knew where their hearts and minds would be.

Botha had texted after it was done. His message was short: “Never knew he was fair game.” Klay didn’t write back. Porfle had been right about snipers and editors. An investigative journalist fires his shot from a long way off, sitting alone at a desk, and waits for word of a result. Klay bent down and picked up a copy of the Times from Van Guilder’s rack.

He had been more than happy to send Raynor McPhee what he had, including recordings he’d made of Eady’s final confession: “I stepped off that two-bit amusement ride and invested in the amusement park instead . . .”

Raynor’s first story had run on the front page above the fold. The article, taking up two more pages inside, had vindicated Hungry, and already she and her anti-corruption effort had been reinstated, her task force granted even more power. Ncube was on his way out. Today’s article was the second in a three-part series. It was also front page.

“MURDER PORTFOLIO: Rogue Intelligence Funds Kill for Profit.”

He scanned the first few grafs. It was all there: The Fund, Eady’s “suicide,” Klay’s double life, Krieger’s hunting accident. After the hyenas got to him, there had been little left of the billionaire, the article said.

Klay got back in his Land Cruiser and started the engine.

“They say he might win a Pulitzer,” Van Guilder called out to him.

But Klay was gone.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A young Togolese journalist seated in the auditorium’s front row raised his hand and asked, “How long have you worked for the CIA?” I was in Lome, finishing up a lecture on wildlife crime and journalism, part of a series I would give across West Africa sponsored by the U.S. State Department. I had by that time interacted with intelligence officers overseas, more than I knew probably, and I’d run some creative international investigations of my own, but I had never worked for the CIA. His question got me thinking.