Klay wrenched himself upright in his seat. Cold sweat covered his forehead. His memories and dreams were becoming one nightmare, the accident in Jakarta weaving itself into his experience in Kenya.

He forced himself to focus on the details he knew to be real. After the fat doctor, he had awoken in a different room. This one was clean, brightly lit, cool. A padded strap held his arm to his side. His wound had been dressed and bandaged. A tall woman stood beside his bed listening to his heart with a stethoscope. She gave him a bright smile, and ticked off his vitals to a nurse. “You are very, very lucky, Mr. Klay,” she said. “You will be fine. Able to fight for our elephants again . . .” The strap was for his wound, she told him. He had been dreaming. “Throwing your arms every which way.”

On his return home, Klay had gone to Georgetown University Hospital for a follow-up. The doctor who examined him said there was nothing more he could do for his injuries. “Your Kenyan surgeon was excellent,” he said.

Had all of that been courtesy of Ras Botha?

And what cage?

THE PUBLIC HAS AN INTEREST

Washington, DC, and Shepherdstown, West Virginia

It was Saturday at the Pigeon. Klay was typing up his notes on the priest, sketching a story. Phil the Economist was reading a newspaper. A couple of French tourists were sitting at a table behind Klay. He could see them in the bar’s back mirror. The French newspaper Le Figaro had recently done a feature on the decline of American journalism, and had included a mention of the Gray Pigeon. The story had inspired a few tourists to visit over the past month. Billy asked one for a translation. “You are like Popeye,” the tourist explained, and made a muscle. Billy smiled, but the tourist continued, “Like Popeye with no ship to sail.”

Next to Klay’s laptop was a tuna fish sandwich and a bag of chips he’d bought at the bodega next door. He was drinking cranberry and seltzer in a pint glass. “You want an umbrella with that?” Billy had asked.

His cell phone rang. It was Porfle.

“You did it again, I see.”

Klay ate a potato chip and typed in another search. “What’s that?”

“Went over my head for your assignment.”

“I assumed Vance cleared it with you.”

“Nope. Didn’t.”

Klay plucked a corner of the plastic wrap around his sandwich and tried to shake it free. “Okay, sorry,” he said.

He wished he’d been able to steal the priest’s photo of the peace negotiations dinner, but Martelino had scooped all of the photos up and returned them to his desk drawer.

“What are you working on?” Porfle asked. “Botha again?”

“I’ll tell you when I get back to the office.”

“The thrill is gone from this relationship, Mr. Klay,” Porfle said.