“See, that was a mistake, the Lambda Team dispatch, and we feel terrible about the whole beyondsalvage directive. Big-time product recall on that order—Firestone-tire-size. Mistake, mistake, mistake. But whatever hostiles you encountered in Hungary—well, they weren’t ours. Maybe once, but not anymore. That’s all I can tell you.”

“So I guess everything’s squared away,” Janson replied with heavy sarcasm.

Collins removed his glasses and blinked a few times. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m sure we’d do the same thing again. Look, I didn’t institute the order, I just didn’t countermand it. Everybody in operations—not to mention all the frontline spooks at the CIA and other shops—thought you’d gone rogue, took a sixteen-million-dollar bribe, all that. I mean, the evidence was plain as day. For a while, I thought so, too.”

“Then you learned better.”

“Except that I couldn’t cancel the order without an explanation. Otherwise, people would assume either I’d lost it or that somebody had got to me, too. Just wasn’t feasible. And the thing was, I couldn’t offer an explanation. Not without compromising a secret on the very highest levels. The one secret that could never be compromised. You’re not going to be able to look at this objectively, because we’re talking about your own survival here. But my job is all about priorities, and where you’ve got priorities, you’re going to have sacrifices to make.”

“Sacrifices to make?” Janson interjected, his voice dripping with derision. “You mean a sacrifice for me to make. I was that goddamn sacrifice.” He leaned in closer, his face numb with rage.

“You can remove your curved beak from my torn viscera. I’m not arguing.”

“Do you think I killed Peter Novak?”

“I know you didn’t.”

“Let me ask you a simple question,” Janson began. “Is Peter Novak dead?”

Collins sighed. “Well, again, my answer’s yes and no.”

“Goddammit!” Janson exploded. “I want answers.”

“Shoot,” Collins said. “Let me rephrase that: ask away.”

“Let’s start with a pretty disturbing discovery I’ve made. I’ve studied dozens of photographic images of Peter Novak in exacting detail. I’m not going to interpret the data, I’m just going to present the data. There are variances, subtle but measurable, of fixed physical dimensions. Ratio of index finger length to forefinger length. Trapezium to metacarpal. Forearm length. The ventral surface of the scapula, shadowed against his shirt, in two photographs taken only a few days apart.”

“Conclusion: these aren’t pictures of one man.” Collins’s voice was flat.

“I went to his birthplace. There was a Peter Novak who was born to Janós and Illana Ferenczi-Novak. He died about five years later, in 1942.”

Collins nodded, and once more, his lack of reaction was more chilling than any reaction could have been. “Excellent work, Janson.”