A smile wriggled loose from the corners of Eady’s mouth. “Why you? Okay, Tom.” He set his cigar in an ashtray. “Let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? Here’s why you make sense: You are a loner. You make acquaintances easily, but you can’t form lasting relationships. You’re emotionally damaged, owing to a tragic incident involving your mother that we needn’t recount, but some people—like you—know how to use the wounded parts of themselves to recognize wounds in others, and turn them to advantage. You drink too much, but you’re not a drunk. Your father, Jack, ended up a senior member of the Scalise Mob, even though he’s not Italian. He remains in prison, though he could certainly cut himself a deal. Nicky Scalise offered to bring you into the family. You didn’t accept, but you could have. The underworld is in your DNA. You break rules frequently, but you have a sense of justice. You have, I believe, the need to do some real good, atone, correct the past. We all make mistakes, but rarely do we have the opportunity to counter their weight so profoundly. Thanks to the work I’ve given you, you’re well traveled now, and reasonably well connected. You’re a superb writer, and that’s cover I need. You’re a good criminal investigator, instinctively. I can make you better. You handle”—he paused—“unexpected adversity.” Eady began relighting his cigar. “That do?”

Klay’s pulse pounded above his left ear. His heart raced. In his mind, he pictured the old newspaper articles describing his mother’s death. He’d read them a thousand times; now he saw Eady reading them, the old man studying the black-and-white photographs of his mother’s mangled car. All of the articles had ended more or less the same way: “Two sons, age seven and nine, were thrown clear.”

Klay locked eyes with Eady. “Don’t ever mention my mother again.”

Eady raised his snowy eyebrows. “We’re thorough,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Klay let the moment settle. “Then I should tell you there was an accident. In Indonesia,” he said, watching Eady’s eyes. “It will come up.”

If killing the boy in Jakarta was what Eady had meant by “unexpected adversity,” Klay couldn’t tell. The old man listened to Klay’s confession without judgment. “I want all of my Agency pay to go anonymously to the boy’s family.”

“I will see to it,” Eady said.

Klay put out his hand. No one on earth had better intelligence than the CIA. He would use what they gave him to rip and tear his way to the bottom of better stories.

“Nothing you wouldn’t otherwise do, Tom,” Eady said, gripping Klay’s hand. “That’s my commitment to you. You’ll be able to stand by every story. Every action.” He refilled Klay’s glass. “You have my word.”