Coming west, he could call Anna every night when he chose a motel. Talking to her was a relief. So was the feeling that he wasn’t driving into uncertainty anymore. He’d done what he’d set out to do. He hadn’t expected to know what that was like till he finished his dissertation. Now he didn’t much care if he ever finished it.

He wanted to call Tim Ishihara, too, but held off. Most of the things he wanted to tell his friend needed to wait till he saw him in person. He had to assume the CIA could still listen to Tim’s phone. They didn’t know Tim had held on to that envelope for him and lied to them about it. He didn’t want his friend to get in trouble for any of that. Sometimes the best thing you could say was nothing.

He thought about calling his dad, too, but that could wait till he got back.

In eastern Arkansas, not far west of Memphis, his oil light came on. He pulled into a truck-stop garage and explained the problem. They put the car on the rack. The mechanic who looked underneath said, “You got an oil seal that’s crappin’ out on you. Two fresh quarts of oil, ten bucks for the part, seventy-five bucks labor, an’ sales tax.”

The labor charge was as close to literal highway robbery as made no difference. Jerry didn’t even flinch. “Fix it,” he said. Having money didn’t mean no problems came your way. But it sure as hell meant you could make them go away if they did.

When he got back into the Los Angeles area, he made a couple of extra stops before he went to his apartment. The first was off Atlantic in East L.A. Sure as hell, the Rambler still sat there. Maybe it would even start when he turned the key. This wasn’t the kind of neighborhood where people called the cops to get an abandoned car towed.

Then he drove down to Long Beach, to the white apartment with the blue roof that pretended to be on Naxos, not Ocean Boulevard. He used the coded knock on the door to the apartment the CIA used. Sure, they might have pulled out by now. But they were probably still moving people on and off the Glomar Explorer, so they also might not have.

A large, muscular man opened the door and looked him over. “Whatever you’re selling, we don’t want any,” he rumbled.

“Oh, shut up,” Jerry said sweetly. “I don’t need to talk to you. I need to talk to Vic.”

The guy’s demeanor changed. “Who are you?”

“Jerry Stieglitz.”

“You’re—him?” The CIA man’s balled into fists. “I oughta—”

Jerry wagged a finger. “That’s a no-no.” He overplayed for all he was worth.