The foam padding was old and dried and bore a surprising number of staples per square foot. He began his carpet extraction in the afternoon, not considering that his new house had no overhead lighting, so by the time he was on to the carpet tacks, he was operating in darkness. It wasn’t until the next morning that he understood why the previous owners had chosen to carpet so much of their home. Every room’s floor had been patched with raw plywood. Instead of something out of Antique Digest, his exposed floors reminded him of the shuffleboard and hopscotch patterns in the attic of Klay Funeral Home designed to keep Klay and his brother quiet during funerals.

As he continued through the house on his hands and knees, prying up carpet staples with a screwdriver, he realized that his approach to journalism—his approach to life—was a lot like his approach to this house: he tore things up without regard to what lay underneath. He got to the bottom of things by whatever means necessary and then he moved on. It was the ripping and pulling he was good at. Until now Klay had always used a notebook and pen. Eady was offering him a jackhammer.

•   •   •

A week later, sitting in Eady’s Watergate apartment, Klay asked, “How many do you have working for you already, Vance?”

Eady lit Klay’s cigar. “You’d be my first, Tom.”

“Bullshit.”

“Truth is, I haven’t ever needed to engage anyone formally before. As editor in chief I’ve been able to satisfy the Agency’s intelligence needs quite effectively, and quietly, sending reporters on assignments of interest without risk to anyone but myself.”

“My stories, too?”

“Some.” Eady thought a moment. “Angola. We needed to know how strong the president’s daughter was. She liked you.”

“So, what are you telling me? Nobody knows? Porfle doesn’t know?”

“I find the best way to keep a secret is not to tell anyone. But I don’t need to tell you that, do I?”

“Are you threatening me, Vance?”

“No, son. I’m trusting you. If you should turn this down, you’d know my secret, you’d know the Agency’s secret. I’m trusting that whatever your choice, you are a patriot.”

Klay shook his head. “Where I come from, what you’re talking about is a rat.”

“That’s a perspective you’ll have to reconcile.”

“So, why me? Why give me this golden opportunity?” Klay felt a sour taste grow in his mouth. He was probing like he hadn’t already made his decision, like he still had a line he would not cross.