But Chambers’s presence here could be explained by a simpler reason: The DHS, the organization that brought us the color-coded threat levels and was charged with protecting our borders, had screwed up big time and, focused on people who’s last names began with al-, had missed Vukasin, a known war criminal, and an unknown number of his goons sneaking into the country on phony papers.

Which wasn’t necessarily bad news for Middleton. It meant that Chambers needed to protect his image and could bring resources to bear in a big way. Middleton was confident that all the pieces were in place for checkmate.

Spotting thick black eyebrows protruding over the top of the Racing Form, Middleton stopped and lowered his chin. “Good evening, Faust,” he said deeply, placing the edge of his briefcase on the table. His heart was beating fast, palms moist. The man he’d been tracking for years was now in front of him. He seemed diminished, much smaller than Middleton expected, though he knew the physical details of the war criminal better than he knew his own.

“I rather liked Patty’s Special in the eighth running ten to one,” came the reply. Faust set down the paper and smoothed it carefully. “Colonel Harold Middleton.”

The swarthy-skinned man with the lopsided grin looked up briefly, then snapped his fingers at the nervous waiter with the puff of blond hair. “Bring a glass for my friend.” Then to Middleton, he said, “I hope you don’t mind Beaujolais.”

The American beamed at his quarry’s attempt at gamesmanship. “I have you, Faust,” he said as he pulled out a chair and sat. “We can do this anyway you want.”

Faust folded the paper and fixed him with intense black eyes. “‘Unhappy master, who unmerciful disaster followed fast and followed faster, till his songs the burden bore; till the dirges of his hope, the melancholy burden bore of Nevermore, of Nevermore.’”

“I deplore people who play with other people’s lives.”

“So do I.”

“It’s over.”

“Let’s hope not, Colonel.” The man took a bite of food, which he seemed to relish. He then said, “One thing I’ve never thanked you for. My name.”

“Your name?”

“That was your creation. I believe you found some documents in a volume of Goethe’s masterpiece, and dubbed me after the hero.”

“You think Faust was a hero?”

“Protagonist then.” He raised his glass. “So here’s to selling our souls to the devil.”

Middleton let his wine glass sit, untouched.

They confronted each other’s stare. Middleton wanted nothing more than to reach over and wring the younger man’s neck.

Faust said, “The great Edgar Allen Poe died at Church Hospital, very close to here. Few grieved. The poor mad genius was placed in an unmarked grave. His last words: ‘Lord help my soul.’”

“It seems you identify with him.”