“But it doesn’t make any sense!” Albright exploded. “Nobody knows who we are. Nothing connects us! Nothing except the most tightly guarded secret in the United States government.”

“Let’s be a little more precise. Even if nobody who’s not in the program knows, he knows.”

“Now wait a minute …”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

“Christ. I mean, what have we done? What have we done?”

“He hasn’t just cut his strings. He’s killing everybody who ever pulled them.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

The sun filtered through the mulberry trees and tall pines, which spread their boughs protectively over the cottage. It was remarkable how well it blended into its surroundings, Janson noted with satisfaction as he walked through the door. He had just returned from a stroll down the path to the tiny village, a few miles down the mountain, and carried groceries and an armload of newspapers: Il Piccolo, Corriere delle Alpi, La Repubblica. Within the cottage, the austerity of the stone exterior was belied by the richly burnished boiserie and warm terra-cotta tiling throughout; the frescoes and ceiling paintings seemed to belong to another age and way of life altogether.

Now Janson entered the bedroom where the woman was still sleeping and prepared a cool, damp compress for her forehead. Her fever was subsiding; time and antibiotics had had their effect. And time had had its healing effect on him, too. The drive to the Lombardy redoubt had taken all night and some of the next morning. She was conscious for little of it, waking up for only the last few miles. It had been picture-perfect northern Italian countryside—the yellow fields of dried cornstalks, the groves of chestnut trees and poplars, the ancient churches with modern spires, the vineyards, Lombard castles perched on crags. Behind them, the gray-blue Alps stood over the horizon like a wall. Yet by the time they arrived, it was clear that the woman had been badly affected by her ordeal, much more so than she had realized.

The few times he had watched her sleep, he saw a woman tossing and turning, in the grip of powerful and disturbing dreams. She would whimper, occasionally lash out with an arm.

Now he draped a cloth drenched in cold water upon her forehead. She tossed feebly, a low moan of protest escaping her throat. After a few moments, she coughed and opened her eyes. He quickly poured water into a glass from the jug at her bedside, and had her drink from it. Before, once she’d taken a drink, she had sunk back into her deep and troubled sleep. This time, however, her eyes remained open. Staring off.

“More,” she whispered.

He poured her another glass of water, and she drank it, steadily, without requiring his support or assistance. Quietly, her strength was returning. Her eyes focused, and fell upon him.

“Where?” she said, the one-word question costing her no little effort.