He went back to the counter and sat next to Laurel. He let himself look at her again, and had to admit Roth truly had outdone himself.

“Where on earth did he find you?” he said.

Laurel shifted uncomfortably. “How about I ask a few questions?”

Lance raised his hands apologetically. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “Ask away.”

“What happened between you and Roth?” she said.

“What happened between us? You’re not asking the right question.”

“And what’s the right question?”

“The right question,” he said, “is where do you fit in to all this?”

“What do you mean, where do I fit in?”

“Why did he get you to step in as my handler?”

“He wanted me for the job,” she said, betraying the first crack of doubt in her smooth exterior.

“I’m sure he did,” Lance said. “But why?”

“I have the skill set. The background. I’m a doctor. A psychiatrist.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“And have you always looked like this?”

“What does that mean?”

“This,” Lance said, waving his hand in front of her. “This face. This hair.”

Laurel leaned back. “You better tell me what you’re talking about or I’m going to walk out of here.”

Lance got up. “Wait here,” he said.

He went upstairs to the safe. He’d installed it himself, built it right into the stone of the chimney stack. He turned the combination dial and pulled open the thick steel door.

Inside were passports, some guns and ammo, cash in various currencies, and a folder of documents. He pulled out a file and rifled through it until he found what he was looking for.

He went back downstairs holding an eight-by-twelve-inch black and white photograph. It was a photo he’d taken. He’d developed it himself in a field lab on old Ilford paper. On it was a woman. She was naked, lying on her back, looking at the camera provocatively.

He handed it to Laurel and when she saw it her eyes widened.

She looked up.

“Yup,” Lance said.

“What is this?”

“You never knew?”

“I don’t even know what I’m looking at.”

Lance sighed. He wasn’t sure what to believe, but he wouldn’t have put it past Roth to pull something like this on both of them.

“Her name was Clarice,” he said.

“Was?”

“She’s dead.”

“And she was your?”

“She was my handler,” he said before the silence had time to hang.

Laurel nodded.

Lance looked away. Roth was more messed up than he’d given him credit for.

Laurel cleared her throat. This couldn’t have been easy for her. No one wanted to find out she was a dead woman’s replacement.

She sipped her coffee and Lance poured her a glass of water.

“Thank you,” she said and drained it in one go.

“I’m sorry to be the one telling you this,” he said.