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“About my height, with a big nose and a handlebar mustache. On the thin side.”

“The mustache?”

“No, that was thick. His build was on the thin side.”

“What was he wearing?”

“A kind of car coat and a cap, you know, like golfers wear? Like Ben Hogan?”

“Where did you meet?”

“At the entrance to the subway station at Twenty-third and Lex. He came out of the subway, I think.”

“What do you mean, you think?”

“Well, I didn’t exactly see him come out of the subway; I just assumed that’s how he got to the corner. I didn’t see him get out of a cab or a car.”

“And he paid you three thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills for your scooter?”

“It was a fair price; the scooter had only twelve hundred miles on it. Not a scratch. Pristine.”

“And you’re sticking to this story?”

“Lady, it’s the only story I got,” Bernie said heatedly. “It’s what happened.”

Holly got up and walked out the door. Lance and Kerry were waiting for her on the other side of the mirror.

“What do you think?” Lance asked.

“I think he’s telling the truth. It was a slick way for Teddy to get the scooter he needed without stealing it and running the risk of getting pulled over. Obviously, the big nose and the handlebar mustache were a disguise. A witness would concentrate on features like that. I’m surprised that Bernie, here, gave us as good a description as he did.”

“Cut him loose?” Lance asked Kerry.

“Sure,” Kerry replied. “We’ll know where to find him, if we need him again.”

“Oh,” Lance said, “the NYPD found the scooter, and they’re processing it for prints.”

“They won’t find any,” Holly said. “Where did they locate the scooter?”

“Parked between two cars on East Twenty-fourth Street, off Lexington.”

“It’s the subway,” Holly said.

“What?”

“Bernie said he met Teddy at the subway entrance at Twenty-third and Lex. That’s how Teddy got there, and it’s how he went home. I’ll bet you he lives within a block or two of the Lexington Avenue subway.”

“Possibly,” Lance said. “How is that going to help us?”

“Let’s put somebody on the subway eight hours a day and have him photograph every possible person who fits Teddy’s description as to height, weight and age.”

“You’re talking about thousands of people,” Kerry said.

“All right,” Holly said, “skip rush hour at both ends; Teddy probably would, since he doesn’t have to be at work anywhere. Photograph all the sixtyish, tallish, slenderish men between, say, ten and four, every day for a week, then run… no, we don’t have any photographs to compare them to… show the photographs to people who worked with Teddy at the agency. Maybe somebody will give us a positive I.D., and if we get that, then we’ll have a photograph to circulate.”

“That’s a lot of work for a slim hope,” Lance said.

“It would be, if we weren’t so desperate,” Kerry replied. “Even with a new murder every few days, this investigation is drying up. We don’t really have all that much for our people to do.”

“All right, Holly, you set it up,” Lance said. “We’re probably going to need more than one body on each train.”

“I’d suggest picking up every train at Ninety-sixth Street and riding it to Twenty-third,” Holly said. “I don’t know how many trains there are, but I’ll find out. When our people get to Twenty-third, they’ll turn around and go back to Ninety-sixth Street, and we’ll do it for five days.”

“Sounds good,” Lance said. “I’ll call a meeting and assign you everybody who isn’t already following another lead. But I warn you, if we get something new, I’ll pull off as many people as it takes to run it down.”

The new assignment was received in stony silence by the group of eighteen unassigned agents in the conference room. Lance made his little speech, then turned the meeting over to Holly and left.

“Questions?” Holly asked.

“Yeah, just one,” an agent said, raising his hand. “Are you nuts?”

“Have you got a better idea?” Holly asked. “Have you got another lead? Are you too busy for this?”

The agent looked at the ceiling, and nobody else spoke.

“All right, listen up,” Holly said, and she began reading a list of names from a clipboard. “You’re being issued concealed cameras; the lens can be worn in a lapel or on the brim of a baseball cap. We’re looking for full-frontal shots, here, folks, no backs of heads or pulled-down hat brims. We need faces, got it? Isn’t intelligence work fun?”

She got back a collection of grumblings she was glad she couldn’t quite hear.

FORTY-ONE

WILL LEE, AT THE END of his daily national intelligence briefing, dismissed everyone but Kate Rule of the CIA and Bob Kinney of the 149, then he held up a copy of the New York Times and pointed to a story in the lower left-hand corner of the front page. “I suppose you’ve seen this?”

MIDEAST U.N. EMBASSIES CLAIM CIA

IS MURDERING THEIR DIPLOMATS

Both nodded.

“Just for the record,” the president said, “tell me the CIA is not murdering Mideast diplomats.”

“The CIA is not murdering Mideast diplomats,” Kate said. “I believe you know who is murdering them.”

“I believe I do,” Will said, “and I’m getting very uncomfortable about knowing it. If this continues, we’re going to have to announce that Teddy Fay is still alive and working.”

Bob Kinney spoke up. “I hope you won’t feel that is necessary right now, Mr. President.”

“Well, Bob, you can always hope, but I’ve dug myself a hole, here, based on the advice of the two of you, and nobody’s getting me out of it. How close are we to arresting Fay?”

“About as close as we were when we thought he was dead,” Kate said glumly.

“All right, Madam Director,” Will said, “I want you to issue a statement, through your spokesperson, saying, as dryly as possible, that the CIA is not murdering Mideast U.N. diplomats. Let’s have that denial on the record, and be sure this guy at the Times gets the message. But I have to tell you both, I don’t know how much longer we can continue keeping a lid on the Teddy Fay story. I’ve had two calls from congressional leaders this morning, and they’re squirming in their seats, believe me. As much as I dread doing it myself, I don’t want one of them to be the one to break this to the press.”

“Yes, sir,” both directors said in unison.

LATER THAT MORNING, Kate Rule sat in a meeting in her conference room with the deputy directors for Intelligence and Operations and their deputies.

“All right,” Kate said, “let me have your reports on your internal investigation into who might be helping Teddy Fay with his little crusade.”

Hugh English, deputy director for Operations, spoke up. “Director, I’m going to let Irene Foster, who personally conducted the investigation, bring you up to date.”

Kate turned and looked at the handsome, middle-aged woman across the table from her. “Irene?”

“Director, under my supervision, every department head in the building has conducted an in-depth investigation of every channel of communication in and out of the Agency that could be a means of passing information to Teddy Fay. In addition, our Computer Services division has audited the computer time of every employee with level-one access to the mainframe, which is the only level at which this information could be accessed. Finally, two hundred and twelve employees who possibly could have had access or gained access to this information have been given class-one polygraphs, and every single one of them has passed. The only possible conclusion that we can draw from all this work is that the source of the information that Teddy Fay is getting is not inside the Agency.” She paused. “That’s my report, and I’ll stand by it.”