Then he said, “We’d like you to work for us.”

“Who’s us?”

“It’s one of those things, you have to say yes or no before there’s an answer.”

“What if I say no?”

“Oh, shit. Then you get prosecuted. Probably for Cohen. Certainly for Voloshin.”

“I’d really like to know who you are first.”

“You know what, I can assure you, we’re the good guys.”

Maybe it was the tension of the situation getting to me, but I burst out, “You know, I fucking hate that. ‘We’re the good guys.’ The guys we’re killing, ‘they’re the bad guys.’ What are we all, six-year-olds? The news talks that way, generals, cops, politicians, presidents. It’s like six-year-olds with cap pistols. Good guys, bad guys. How about some ‘grown-up guys.’ ”

“Fair enough. We’re the grown-up guys. We try to make the best of bad situations. We look for the better of two…no, the best of multiple ambiguous choices. Does that suit you better?”

What suited me better was getting out of his office, not being prosecuted in New York or the Arlberg. I said, “Yes.” Though I was now agreeing to kill people for an additional organization. Some part of me remembered that such things are wrong. Or, I was making the proper adjustment to a world that had changed. Amoral? Post-moral? Free market economists believe that money is the true measure of value. If people only pay a little for something, it is of little value. If they pay a lot, it is of high value. Madelaine and Elizabeth were paying me $200,000 per corpse, just as a base rate, with significantly more through bonuses and such.

Just out of curiosity, not out of greed, I asked, “Is there money?”

“There would be,” he said. “Though I can’t say the amounts at this juncture.”

Add that on top. In a reality in which the dollar value defined value, murder-for-hire was an act of great value. By the numbers, it was the most valuable thing I’d ever done.

The room was square and bare. The door was closed. No windows at all. No gods, ancient or new, could enter with chaos and lunacies. I said, “OK.”

The Mormon, who was actually a casual Methodist, both of us quite godless in any case, given the conspiratorial relationship we were entering into, look pleased. In that pleasant, mild, Men’s Wearhouse suit, shirt, and tie manner that he had. With a satisfied smile, but a moderate one, that would never offend, he nodded, and said one simple word, “Good.”

—

Explanations, however limited, were in order.

“We’ve been embarrassed,” he said. “Deeply embarrassed. By oversights. Failures. By our inability to deal with certain difficult problems.