It was better to give out the whole shebang. So he did that. And instead of trying to find the NSC guy who’d gotten his hands on the Sissy updates, Will gave them to another NSC guy. This guy gave them to one of the papers. But he told them what the Sissy updates meant. And they believed him. The interpretation of the report was the reality. No one at a news organization had time to read the full report and think it through.

They’d had the stuff for over a week, and here, today, they were writing about White House surveillance, just as Will had wanted them to. And though they had everything about Will’s Potomac Pilot fuckup—they weren’t writing about it. Like his mother, they could only remember so much. They were mostly interested in Recognizable Place-Names, like the White House.

The old way—telling editors not to publish—was a limping strategy. Ultimately, they published. Maybe not right away but sooner than he’d ever wanted. White House surveillance sounded like scandal, and it would take time to sort out if it were, and even if it were, it would drift aside, just as his mother forgot about his work. They lived in a fuzzed-over way.

It was five to two. Vera had done some checking in Mitch’s public queue, where he stored computer files anyone could access. He had no top.

She had seen the message from Martina: I really need you to take the top out of your private queue.

She had watched him message back: I need more time.

Suddenly Mitch picked up his phone as if he had just gotten a call. But it hadn’t rung. He waited a few seconds, then messaged, On fone. Vera detected a cringe as he sent it. What if Martina come over to his desk, put her hands on Mitch’s keyboard, and started typing the commands to take the top of the story out of his private queue? The Metro editor had done it once to Vera—and, yes, Martina was getting up and walking toward his desk, where she would quickly see that the lights on his phone indicated he was not on the phone at all.

Vera feared for him. She watched as Mitch opened a file and began typing nonsense strings of words into it with the phone wedged between his ear and his right shoulder. This would mean Martina would have to push him away from the keyboard and might, if she typed the commands, erase Mitch’s “notes.” That’s what the Metro editor had done to Vera.

But then it happened. Mitch’s phone did ring. He was so unprepared for it that he banged his elbow against the desk. He quickly pressed the second-line button, and Vera watched it light up a welcome green.

“Mitch?” The voice was so loud Vera could hear it exactly.

“Yes,” Mitch said.

“It’s Eugene.”