“You requisitioned a Falcon Jet assigned to General Ham Ratling and took it from Bangkok to Paris on a noncontracted run. Meaning that we got a forty-eight-thousand-dollar bill from the Air Force, plus a letter from Secretary Leisenring. A very pissed-off letter. The general and his wife and kids all ended up in first class on Thai Airways, and we got a bill for that, too.”

“It was a hot pursuit, Justin. For Chrissakes.”

“A hot pursuit.” He pulled a yellow pad out of his desk. “So how do I write this up? Give me words, buddy.”

“Agents were in hot pursuit of a female vampire —”

Justin held up his hand. “Say something else.”

“Terrorist.”

“A terrorist contact incident has to be written up on one of those—lemme see here—Candy!”

Candy Terrell, his assistant, came in.

“I need a TCI form,” he told her.

“What the hell is a TCI form?”

“Terrorist Contact Incident. Every field op who thinks he’s encountered a terrorist, whether known or unknown, has to fill one out and file it within six hours. It’s been days in this case, of course. But nobody expects less from our boy.”

Candy left the room.

“We’ll return to the plane issue later. I thought you were injured.”

“It healed.”

“In two days? The police report said you had a knife wound in your left shoulder that took eighteen stitches. Why isn’t your arm in a sling?”

“I heal fast. Always have.”

Justin cleared his throat and shuffled some papers. Paul was perplexed. He had healed fast—incredibly fast. He should have been in a sling. He should have had a cast.

Why wasn’t Justin curious about that? Paul sure as hell was.

“You also have a body coming back. Was it on the transport with you?”

“The French flew it from Villacoublay to Ramstein. It oughta be in Santa Clara tomorrow. It’s being delivered directly to the family.”

“You’ve written a letter?”

Paul had not written a letter. He couldn’t do that, as Justin well knew. “It has to come out of the pool.” Next of kin were handled out of a central office when agents died or were injured in the course of secret operations.

“You do it. Let the pool send it.”

“Okay.”

“Because I want you to feel it.”

Paul sucked in breath. He really did not want to deck Justin Turk, his only ally at Langley, but Paul’s tendency was to go physical when he felt threatened, and an insult like that was damned threatening. He was sitting here, and getting this. “I took a hit, too,” he said. “We had a terrible time in there. Just awful.”

“You couldn’t have stayed out of harm’s way? I mean, given the French presence on French soil?”

“We couldn’t.” What else was there to say? Just let it go. The desks never understood operational issues, never had, never would.