The ninth floor of the MCB building was quiet. The ops center and media monitoring stations were on the floors below them and would be fully staffed around the clock. Most of the field agents stationed in DC had either been dispatched to the Las Vegas cover-up, or they were backfilling the regional offices of those who had. The office staff had gone home for the night hours ago. It was 1:15. Agent Strayhorn had fallen asleep in one of the office chairs in front of his desk. Somewhere down the hall the cleaning crew turned on a vacuum cleaner and the rookie bolted awake. “Huh?” He glanced around quickly before remembering where he was. “Sorry. I was . . . I was just resting my eyes.”

This was scut work, not a real mission, so he didn’t care if his agents slept on the job. At least when they slept they weren’t annoying him with constant nattering. This way they’d be well rested for when there was something important to do, like killing things. He had dismissed Jefferson and Archer, and would have sent them all home if Myers would have allowed it, but Myers felt he needed handlers until this was over, so that was all there was to it. Franks ignored the rookie and went back to his forms. Having spent time in Hell, he knew that government paperwork was the closest mankind had ever come to achieving true soul-crushing misery.

“Where’s Radabaugh?”

“Coffee.” Franks nodded toward the hall. There was a cafeteria downstairs.

“I wasn’t asleep,” the rookie said, even though he’d been snoring when Radabaugh left. If this had been real guard duty there would have been a reprimand. The TO hadn’t cared because if doing paperwork was tedious, watching someone else do it was even worse.

Franks made a noncommittal sound and went back to typing his statement. He’d have Jefferson edit it in the morning, because he didn’t think Myers would approve of answers like because Director Stark is a pathetic maggot he’s lucky that’s all I did to him.

He worked for a few more minutes before Strayhorn got up the nerve to talk to him again. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Agent Franks?”

“Don’t.”

“Sorry.” The rookie went back to counting the ceiling tiles. He began to tap absently on the arm of his chair. The sound was annoying. Franks glared. He stopped, probably uncomfortable that he was sharing the room with a monster. “Sorry.”

He could have ordered the rookie to shut up, or go stand in the corner, or something, but his question was probably more interesting than the stupid reports. “Ask,” he demanded.

“I’ve been briefed now on your history and what you are . . .”

He raised an eyebrow.