“You got any real food, Arno?” the stranger said. “Some wings or something?”

Eady closed his eyes and pursed his lips in both apology and permission for Arno to exit.

“Okay, okay,” the man said. “No food then.”

“So,” Eady began.

The man’s left hand shot up, and Eady fell silent. The man held it in the air and together they listened to the hiss of Arno’s hand descending the stair rail. When the hiss stopped and what sounded like the bottom step creaked, the stranger lowered his hand, picked up his drink, and offered a toast. “Name is Will Barrow. Joke if you like. Cheers!”

Klay sat without touching his drink.

“What’s the matter?” Barrow said, raising an eyebrow.

“I like to know what I’m toasting,” Klay said.

“Not what I hear.”

“I’m sorry?”

“From what I understand you’ll drink to your breakfast.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you don’t always meet your deadline because a story’s gone cold. It means I can smell it on your breath, Mr. Klay, and you haven’t had your first sip. It makes you vulnerable. Same way sending money to a family of stick-poor Indonesians makes you vulnerable.”

Klay resisted the urge to turn to Eady. His payments to Adri’s family had been the secret within his secret. Eady had shared it with this man.

“Logistics, Tom,” Eady interjected. “Necessary. Now that I’m gone, I wanted you to meet Mr. Barrow. Mr. Barrow is—”

“I know who he is.”

“Maybe,” Barrow said. “Maybe not. Are you going to drink that?”

Klay looked at the brown liquid in his glass. “A drink’s about the company.”

“The company,” Barrow echoed. He leaned back, pulled an ankle onto his knee, then laced his fingers behind his head, and stared at Klay.

“Tom,” Eady said. “I’d have preferred to introduce this proposal to you myself, one-on-one, the way we’ve always communicated. But . . . well . . . my situation has forced me to accelerate things. Sitting behind a camera most of my life made me a patient man. Too patient it turns out. I’m having to learn to change that. What I have to say is something I hope you will accept and understand and, whatever your decision, that you will keep it confidential. Among us. Here.”

Eady was babbling. Eady didn’t babble.

Klay studied the painting above Eady’s chair. It was a Monet, it turned out. The simple painting consisted of a large black rock shrouded in mist. What made it powerful was Monet’s decision to emphasize the mist, not the rock. The curtain, not the stage.

“I won’t beat around the bush, Tom. The Sovereign has a long-standing, symbiotic relationship with the Agency because of the work we do as—”

“For Chrissake.” Barrow turned to Klay. “It’s simple. With Vance out, we’re out.”

“I understand,” Klay said.

“No,” Barrow said. “You don’t.”