“Yes, sir,” Adam said.

Thorne drew on his cigar and stared at Adam. He liked what he saw. Major Adam Faulconer was a young man, fair haired and bearded, with a square, trustworthy face. He was, Thorne knew, an instinctive Unionist and an honest man, but maybe, Thorne reflected, those were the wrong qualities for this job. Maybe he needed a rogue, but the choice had not belonged to Thorne. “So what are you to do, Faulconer? I shall tell you.” He stood again and began pacing up and down behind his desk. “We have hundreds of sympathizers behind the enemy lines and most of them are no damn good. They see a rebel regiment march past and they’re so overawed by the column’s length that they report ten thousand men where in truth they’ve only seen a thousand. They send their messages and Detective Pinkerton multiplies their figure by three and Little George quakes in his fighting boots and begs Halleck to send him another army corps, and that, Faulconer, is how we’ve been conducting this war.”

“Yes, sir,” Adam said.

Thorne tugged up a window sash to let some of the cigar smoke out of the room. The city’s sewage stench wafted in with a flutter of moths that flew suicidally toward the yellow-blue flames of the gas jets. Thorne turned back to Adam. “But I have a handful of agents of my own, and one of them is of particular value. He’s a lazy man and I doubt that his allegiance to the North is anything other than a cynical calculation as to the war’s outcome, but he has the possibility of revealing the rebel’s strategy to us, everything! How many? Where? Why? The same kind of thing you tried to reveal on the peninsula. But he’s also a timid man. His patriotism is not so strong that he fancies a hempen rope round his neck on a rebel gallows, and for that reason he is a cautious man. He will send us dispatches, but he will not use any means except those of his own devising. He won’t risk his neck trying to ride through the lines, but said I could provide a courier who could run that risk, but he insisted it would have to be someone he could trust.” Thorne paused to draw on his cigar, then jabbed it toward Adam. “He named you.”

Adam said nothing. Instead he was trying to think of someone who matched Thorne’s description, someone he obviously knew well in his native Virginia, but he could pluck no name or face out of his tangled memories. For a few wild seconds he wondered if it was his father, then he dismissed that thought. His father would never betray Virginia as Adam had done. “Might I ask—” Adam began.