Daphne was referring to the renegade United Nations peacekeepers who had seized the Security Council during a party. Several children, including Hood’s daughter Harleigh, were among the young musicians providing entertainment. Hood and his number-two man, General Mike Rodgers, entered the chamber and, in a bloody gun battle, freed the captives.

Daphne was regarding Hood intently.

“I certainly hated what they did,” he told her.

“But not them?” she asked.

“No,” he answered truthfully. “They lost. Victory cost us something. Life always does. But it cost them everything.”

“So you see it as a net gain for our side,” Daphne said.

“I’m not quite that dispassionate about it, but yes. More or less,” Hood told her.

“You’re more philosophical about confrontations than I am,” Daphne told him. The woman leaned forward again. “I hate my enemies, Paul. I despise them from my nose to my toes. And I track them. I follow their activities in the trade magazines and through the cocktail-party circuit. If they are executives in a public company, I check the stock several times a day. Each time it goes down, I’m a happy woman. I don’t miss an opportunity to cut their hamstrings. In fact, I go out of my way to get them.”

“Well, that’s business,” he said.

“No, Paul. It’s personal. I personalize it. I personalize everything. You don’t understand that, do you?”

“It seems a little obsessive to me,” he admitted. “Or maybe that should be for me.”

“It is obsessive!” Daphne agreed. “Who says that’s a bad thing?”

“Well, there will always be more enemies,” Hood replied. “You can’t vanquish all of them.”

“Probably not,” she said.

“So I don’t see what the benefit is to an ongoing high-intensity conflict,” Hood said.

“Living,” she said. “You feel passionate about something every second of every day.”

“The hate doesn’t eat you up?” Hood asked.

“That’s the point!” she said. “It only eats you up if it stays inside. I channel it, use it as fuel for other things.”

“I see,” Hood said.

Not only did Daphne remind Hood of Martha Mackall, but she would get along terrifically with Op-Center’s intelligence chief Bob Herbert. Herbert hated fast and deep and enthusiastically. Hood admired, respected, and trusted him. But if Herbert didn’t have someone to keep him in check, he would constantly struggle between what was right and what was satisfying.

Daphne sat back again. “So. Now that I’ve turned you off completely, talk to me about whatever you do that isn’t classified.”

“You didn’t turn me off,” Hood insisted.

“No?”

Hood shook his head as he took another bite of bread-stick. “Some of my best friends are sociopaths.”

The woman gave Hood a twisted little smile.

That’s promising, Hood thought. She can laugh at herself.