“Shit,” she said in two syllables, glowering. Finally, she said, “He’s a fat-ass desk jockey at State, Bureau of Research and Intelligence. Sweet guy, though. I think he likes me, because when I’m around, his tongue comes out like Michael Jordan doing a fadeaway. Stranger things, right? But what’s really strange is what he told me about Puma.”

“Puma?”

“Shop name for Peter Novak. And before you ask, you’re Falcon. The Puma update is what’s freaking me out, though. They don’t think he’s dead.”

“What, are they waiting for the obituary in The New York Times?”

“Story is that you took money to arrange his death. But you failed.”

“I saw him die,” Janson said sadly, shaking his head. “God, I wish it were otherwise. I can’t tell you how much.”

“Whoa,” she said. “What, you trying to claim credit for the kill?”

“I’m afraid your contact is either putting you on or, more likely, just hasn’t got a clue.” He rolled his eyes. “Your tax dollars at work.”

“Mentioned there was a news segment with him on CNN today. We got CNN here? Probably still be showing on the early-morning Headline News retreads.”

She wandered over to the large-screen television set, and switched on CNN. Then she located a blank videotape atop the connected VCR, popped it in, and hit RECORD.

A special report on the declining power of the Federal Reserve. Renewed tensions between North and South Korea. The latest fashion craze among Japanese youth. Protests against genetically modified foods in Britain. Forty minutes of videotape had been recorded by now. Then came a three-minute segment about an Indian woman who ran a clinic in Calcutta for her countrymen with AIDS. A homegrown Mother Teresa, someone called her. And—the occasion for the segment—the ceremony yesterday honoring the woman’s efforts. A distinguished-looking man presenting her with a special humanitarian award. The same man who had helped fund her clinic.

Peter Novak.

The late, great Peter Novak.

Janson watched the large-screen TV with a swirling sense of bewilderment. Either this was some kind of technical trickery or, most likely, it had been filmed earlier, much earlier.

Surely a closer inspection would make this clear.

Together, he and Jessie rewound the recording she had made. There was Peter Novak, the familiar figure, unmistakably so. He was grinning and speaking into a microphone, “There’s a favorite Hungarian proverb of mine: Sok kicsi sokra megy. It means that many small things can add up to a big one. It’s a privilege to be able to honor the remarkable woman who, through countless small acts of kindness and compassion, has given the world something large indeed … .”

There had to be an easy explanation. There had to be.

Then they watched the segment again, frame by frame.