“Kitchen. Absolutely.” Maureen picked up the tea pitcher and headed toward the sliding glass door that led inside. “O . . . kay, we’ll be going to the kitchen now,” she said lightly.

Duncan watched them disappear, taking a long, full look at Maria’s departing frame. “What’s that all about?”

“We were walking the beach.” Condley shrugged. “And I must have got your call.”

“I’m surprised my message made it through all the static.”

“That kind of static I’m used to. Getting satellite pings from the fifth dimension is kind of new. What’d you guys do, implant a microchip in my butt when I was wounded?” Condley watched Duncan carefully, enjoying his obvious distraction. “You’ve been long at sea, Skipper.”

“No,” he laughed. “I just appreciate your . . . versatility, that’s all.”

“Hey, I’m all about diversity. I was way ahead of the government on that.”

“Speaking of government.” Duncan picked up the manila envelope, now growing earnest. “Call it instinct, but I think I’ve got something here.”

“Pepper?”

“I can’t say yet.” The general opened the envelope, pulling out a sheaf of papers. “I had my G-2 staff start keywording Viet Nam into all the intelligence traffic. Quietly, just to see what came up. They’ve been marking the reports for me, and I just take them in bundles and read them either at night or when I’m traveling. I didn’t even tell them why I’m doing it. And most of it’s junk, anyway. But not all of it. And you know how it goes. Wherever there’s a pile of horseshit, sooner or later you’re going to find a pony.”

Duncan handed a dozen sheets of paper to Condley. “You can’t take these with you, because they’re classified, and I doubt somehow you have a safe in your apartment.”

“In the neighborhood where I live I’m lucky I even have a fucking bed in my apartment.”

“My point exactly. But I want you to read them. And I want you to remember a name: Petrushinsky. Anatolie Petrushinsky. Actually, I’m going to write that down for you before you leave.”

“Anatolie Petrushinsky.” Condley tried the name, rolling it on his tongue. “Got it. Russian?”

“Lives in Moscow.” Duncan took a deep breath, speaking carefully, never having been given to wild speculation. “I have good reason to believe he may have known Salt and Pepper. It’s a long shot, but if I had to put money on it I’d actually give good odds.”