103

HELLO, SAM.”

“Mila.”

“I promised we would have a drink together when all was done.” Her bruises were healing, but there was a sadness in her eyes instead of the steel I was used to in her gaze. I gestured at the bartender. He brought her a Glenfiddich without being told.

I said, “That doesn’t go with painkillers.”

“Americans have obsessive worry about drug interactions. So risk-averse.”

“With such a nice place, why did you go drink at Ollie’s?”

“I would like to buy Ollie’s bar, as he said. He won’t sell.”

“Two bars in one city?”

“Brooklyn and Manhattan are two different concepts.” She glanced around. “Oh, yes, I like bars. Bluecut is really marvelous.”

“I like bars, too.”

“Good,” she said. “Would you like this one?”

I glanced at her. “I like this one just fine.”

“You misunderstand. Would you like to own it? Bluecut, and all the bars we have? The Adrenaline in London, the Rode Prins in Amsterdam, Taverne Chevalier in Brussels? We have many more: in Las Vegas, Sydney, Miami, Paris, Moscow, all around the world. I think we’re up to thirty.”

She had to be kidding so I laughed. “Sure. You and I can go have a drink in each one. After I have my son back.”

“Sam. My employers are interested in retaining your services. You did extraordinary work for us.”

“Was Bahjat Zaid part of your Round Table? One of the rich and powerful members?”

She didn’t show surprise that I knew the Round Table name. She said, “Yes, he was. He supplied us in the past.”

“He wasn’t such a nice guy.”

“He was a desperate man, trying to save a daughter. He made poor choices.”

I started to shake my head, but Mila deserved better than scorn. “I don’t even know who you people are.” And I remembered what I’d said in London to the suits, about networks that came together only to do work, snapped apart and re-formed in new shapes, some so powerful and with such reach that they had infiltrated government. I’d talked about criminal networks that way; perhaps the Round Table was such an informal network, but a force for good. Novem Soles could be its opposite, the dark to its light.

“Together we stopped Edward. We stopped Howell. You know we’re on the side of the angels.”

“I’ve had enough mystery. I have enough mystery. I have to find my son.”

“Sam. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t a hard decision. I did trust Mila. She was halfway to crazy, and she was unpredictable, but I could see a core of decency that ran through her clear as iron in stone.

“There’s a reason certain people inside the Company don’t want you to find your child,” she said quietly.

“What?”

She slid a piece of paper over to me. It read: AGENT CAPRA CAN ONLY BE CONTROLLED BY HIS DESIRE TO FIND HIS CHILD. ALL FILES ON CAPRA ARE CLASSIFIED DUE TO and then long black lines of redaction. “That is from a highest-classification file. Whoever has taken your child, the powers that be wish to keep that person’s identity a secret. Out of a desire to control you.”

I stared at her. “I don’t believe this.”

“I think the Company would like to help you. I am not at all indicting the CIA. But there is a secret cabal inside it, I believe, connected to Howell; perhaps he was only their tool. These people will block you at every turn. If you try and work inside with them, your quest for Daniel will be futile.” She took a long, savoring sip of her whisky. “I do not like being the bearer of bad news.”

“Why would this be so?” But then I thought of my work in London. Criminal networks, tied into governments. It had happened across Europe; now it was happening here.

“Because we don’t yet know all their secrets, Sam. Lucy’s and Howell’s. Maybe even yours.”

“I don’t have secrets.”

“Sometimes you don’t know… what you don’t know,” she said.

“What does that mean?”

“You need to find your son. We need your talents, from time to time. You need a cover. So, I propose this: to the public, you will be given the ownership of the bars. All of them. Run them, keep them profitable.” She smiled. “The bars give you a reason to go wherever your search for your son, or wherever our assignments, take you. A cover that the Company cannot question. You do, after all, have a background in working in bars, and you need gainful employment. You will do jobs for us when needed. Jobs that require your skill set, your vision, your sense of action.”

It was a profound compliment. “They’ll still suspect. And now you’re saying I’m working against the CIA.”

“No. Against someone—probably several—inside it, who have no loyalty to the CIA, or to your government, or to humanity, for that matter. Have you not wondered if Howell had a master?” Only Mila could say the word master and have it sound cruel rather than funny. “This Novem Soles, Howell was their boy. Even with his high rank, he must have been nothing to them, just a flunky being paid. Worse will come, I think.”

I studied the bottom of my whisky glass.

“We will help you. I swear to you, Sam. Please say yes. Here.” She slipped me a DVD. “Security tape from the clinic Lucy said she had the baby at. You will see a tall, dark woman leaving Lucy’s room, carrying a baby, the day after your child was born.”

I didn’t dare to breathe.

“We can help you ID this woman. Pick up the thread.”

Find the line, I thought, just as I had raced to find it in the parkour run on that long-ago morning in London, the last normal morning of my life. Find the line.

To have a life again, I could take this secret life, for a while, to find my son. I felt the old tickle of adrenaline begin again, along my spine, curling into my brain.

I stood, turned to face the small scattering of customers in the Bluecut. I jumped, without a wobble, onto the fine leather bar stool and cleared my throat. The elegant piano player stopped. The sparse but cool midday crowd looked up at me, startled.

I put on my host’s smile and held my whisky glass up in a toast. “Ladies and gentlemen, I just acquired this bar. The drinks are on the house.”