That’s the good news, that will always be the good news.

“She asked about a business card that was found on the farmer when he was brought in. The official report said the business name and the phone number on the card were fake.”

“And?” comes the inquiry.

“Captain Cornwall wanted me to recheck it.”

“And did you?”

“I did.”

“Did you confirm to her what the report said, that the phone number and company name were fake?”

A blue jay skitters to a halt, not more than three meters away. It steps across the ground with proud, jerky moves, and then flies off.

What a gorgeous day.

The officer repeats, “Did you confirm to her what the report said, that the company number and name were fake?”

He takes a sweet breath. “No, I didn’t. Captain Cornwall…I don’t think you understand what it’s like being out there, in an FOB. You learn to depend on each other, have each other’s backs, look out for each other.”

The officer on the other side of the tree doesn’t say anything.

Preston says, “I trust her. I’ve always trusted her. And she asked me to do something, so I did it.”

The voice is flat. “Which was what?”

“I researched the name and phone number on the card.”

“What did you find?”

“There was a phone number. Out of Mexico. And the company name…Mercador Holdings. An agricultural firm, in the States and Mexico.”

“Anything else?”

“I dug a bit into Mercador Holdings. Its majority owner is a bank out of Mexico. Called First Republic Global Bank.”

“What did the captain say when you told her that?”

“She seemed excited, happy,” Preston says.

“I’m sure.”

There’s silence and then the officer says, “You did all right, Lieutenant. No worries.”

Preston sighs. This sweet day is back on track. “Thanks.”

“Let me ask you one more question.”

“Sure.”

The man asks, “You ever hear of something called fragging?”

“No, I haven’t,” he says.

“Funny, you’re the second person to say that today.”

And Preston hears movement, feels something metallic pressing against his right temple, and then nothing else.

CHAPTER 78

I RUB at the crusts in the corners of my eyes, take an exit off US 98 in Florida, following the signs pointing to my end destination, Beachside. The road is bleached asphalt, and the surrounding land is sandy, with thin grass and spindly green trees.

Archie is sitting next to me, hands folded carefully in his lap, watching the scenery fly by. Since we left Texas some hours ago, he’s not said a word to me.

But I can’t stand the silence, so I talk to him as we get closer to Beachside.

“I’m a trained Army intelligence officer,” I say, as we head south. Even though I can’t see it, I can smell the nearby Gulf of Mexico.

“About ninety percent of civilians think all we intelligence officers do is read lots of reports, stare at maps, make educated guesses,” I say. “And part of that’s correct. We read lots of reports. We look at maps. We make educated guesses. But we also talk to people. Lots of people…like a young engineer from Karachi, very intelligent, very sweet-looking, who was captured after his suicide belt didn’t go off in a marketplace in New Delhi. And who politely lets you know that if he ever gets out, he plans to go to the Hindu Kush and get a belt that’s designed better, so it works the next time.”