"And trust me, that's not hyperbole," said Dobson. "Unfortunately, though, this is about more than just favorability ratings and politics. This is about national security. And Frank Karcher has seriously threatened it."

I listened very carefully to what came next.

Dobson explained the protocol of what happens after the death of active CIA personnel, especially someone on Karcher's level as the National Clandestine Service chief. Basically, anything and everything having to do with his life gets searched, reviewed, raked over, and then raked over again.

"The problem in this case," said Dobson, "is that it's like having the fox guard the henhouse. We don't know how deep this runs at the CIA-who was involved and how many-but if the guy shooting at you from that rooftop yesterday is any indication, it doesn't bode well."

"He's an agent with the Special Activities Division, Karcher's former unit within the CIA," explained Crespin.

"Then, of course, there's the young man at the center of all this." Dobson looked down at an open file as if searching his notes for Owen's name. "Yes, Owen Lewis," he said. "Who, as of right now, is nowhere to be found."

d.a.m.n, Skippy, nowhere to be found. Where the h.e.l.l are you, Owen, and what's with the secret fishing expedition? You're up to something, but what?

I waited for Dobson to look at me in light of his mentioning Owen, but he didn't. Instead, he reached for another file on his desk, this one featuring a bright red stripe across it.

"But back to Karcher and the issue of national security," he continued. "I'm pretty sure I could lose my job, if not worse, for what I'm about to share with you, but since that's the least of my problems this morning, we'll be making an exception." He paused to take a sip of coffee, staring at us over the lip of the mug. First at Valerie. Then at me. "Besides, according to Crespin here, if it weren't for the two of you, things could've been a lot worse."

And with that, Dobson opened the file.

CHAPTER 106.

THE FIRST thing he held up was a color photograph, measuring roughly eight by ten. It could've been a head shot for a leading man, albeit one more suited for Bollywood than Hollywood.

"This is Dr. Prajeet Sengupta," said Dobson, his exaggerated diction suggesting just a trace of xenophobia. He then read from the file in bullet-point fashion. "Born in India, educated here in the States. Stanford undergrad, Harvard Medical School. Currently a staff neuroscientist with the New Frontier Medical Inst.i.tute in Bethesda, specializing in ionotropic and metabotropic receptor manipulation in the human brain." Dobson paused, looked up. "If anyone knows what that actually means, be my guest."

I didn't. Not exactly. Still, it wasn't hard to see where this was heading.

Sure enough, according to Dobson, Prajeet Sengupta was the missing link to the serum, the guy Karcher had used to turn Owen's research into an injectable polygraph machine. One question, though, and I didn't hesitate with it.

"How do you know this?" I interrupted.

Dobson nodded slightly as if he'd expected me to ask that. "Again, this isn't for broadcast, but before the CIA could do its reconnaissance on Karcher's apartment, including his hard drive, I got in there first." He corrected himself with a raised palm. "Not me personally, but a special investigator with the FBI. Working unofficially, of course."

All the while, Dobson was still holding up the picture of Sengupta. It was a posed photograph, most likely taken on behalf of the medical inst.i.tute where the doctor worked. I could picture the website, complete with a glowing bio underneath his good looks and warm smile. Nowhere would his moonlighting efforts be mentioned.

Then-poof!-he was gone.

Dobson lowered the photo, only to lift another one from the file. Exhibit B, apparently.

"Now meet Arash Ghasemi," he said.

The only thing the two pictures had in common was the size. Instead of a posed head shot, this one was courtesy of a zoom lens from an angle that suggested the photographer was somewhere in the Middle East he really shouldn't have been. Black-and-white and a bit grainy, it was still clear enough to tell that Ghasemi was the opposite of Sengupta in the looks department. More to the point, Ghasemi had pretty much been hit by the ugly stick. Repeatedly.

Again, Dobson read from the file. "Born in Iran, educated in the States. Stanford undergrad; MIT graduate program, nuclear science and engineering. Then, days after accepting a job with General Atomics in San Diego, he suddenly split town and returned to Iran."

The subtext of that last sentence was crystal clear. Arash Ghasemi was now working for the Iranian nuclear program.

Less clear was whether it was by choice. And even less clear than that was what this Iranian nuclear engineer had to do with Sengupta, the Indian neuroscientist.

Until I replayed Dobson's descriptions of the two in my head. Word for word. And the one word-the one school-he'd mentioned twice.

"Stanford," I said.

"Very good, Mr. Mann. You win the Samsonite luggage," said Dobson. "You see, this is a tale of two roommates."

CHAPTER 107.

HE HAD it all right there in the file, right down to the actual dorm where they first met freshman year. Arroyo House in Wilbur Hall.

Prajeet Sengupta and Arash Ghasemi had become fast friends at Stanford. Put them most anywhere else in the world and they had little in common. Under the bright glare of a California sun, however, they might as well have been brothers. Two strangers thrown together in a strange land.

By soph.o.m.ore year they had become roommates, all but inseparable, including rushing Sigma Chi together.

"And if you're looking for a reason why Ghasemi trusted Sengupta so much-even twenty years later-look no further than that fraternity," said Dobson.

The handsome and more gregarious Sengupta had been tapped to pledge. But Ghasemi had been pa.s.sed over. That is, until Sengupta made it very clear that they were a package deal. Sigma Chi couldn't get one without the other.

Of course, who the h.e.l.l was some pledge to be making a demand like that?

"A pretty d.a.m.n clever one," said Dobson. "In true frat-boy fashion, Sengupta challenged the rush chair to a drinking contest-shot for shot, last man standing. If Sengupta won, Ghasemi could become a brother. And if he lost? That was the clever part. The rush chair outweighed the skinny kid from Bangalore by nearly a hundred pounds. It wasn't a fair fight. How could he ever lose?"

But he did.

Dobson smiled. "Like I said, it wasn't a fair fight. Sengupta, who was premed at the time, had injected himself with a derivative of a drug called iomazenil. Apparently, it binds the alcohol receptors in the brain. In other words, it's a binge drinker's dream come true." Dobson pointed at me. "Okay, now this is where you ask me that question again, Mr. Mann. How do I know this?"

For sure, I was about to. Not Valerie, though. She'd been around the block a few times in the world of intelligence gathering. All she could do was sigh in a way that had only one translation. We live in a very complicated world.

"CIA or NIA?" she asked Dobson.

"Both," he answered. Then he explained.

Not long after Ghasemi returned to Iran-against his will-to work for the Iranian nuclear program, Sengupta was recruited by the National Investigation Agency of India, the NIA. This was at the urging of the CIA based on the greatest shared interest the US and India have as two nuclear powers: making sure Iran doesn't become one as well.

"Sengupta knew that his good friend Ghasemi was miserable back in his homeland of Iran," Dobson continued. "Iranians might despise what they see as US hegemony, but they do so having never spent time in this country. But Ghasemi had. We weren't the enemy."

I listened to Dobson, almost dizzy. It was hard enough to keep track of the names, let alone the motives and inferences.

Valerie might have had the pole position, but I was finally up to speed.

Ghasemi was giving Sengupta, his good friend and former roommate, Iranian nuclear secrets.

Dobson took another sip of coffee before leaning forward, his words coming slowly. "I understand you've lost someone very close to you, Mr. Mann, and that undoubtedly you want justice. I sure would. But I'm afraid justice means exposing Sengupta, and that would mean no more connection with Ghasemi. Thanks to that relationship, our government currently knows more about the Iranian nuclear program than the Supreme Leader himself. And I wish it were hyperbole when I say that the fate of the world could very well depend on that relationship continuing."

Yes, indeed. We live in a very complicated world.

I wasn't sure what I was going to say, only that it was something. Perhaps a feeble attempt to strike some sort of "justice bargain," the way I used to with prosecutors after I went to the dark side, as Claire liked to call it, and became a defense attorney.

But before I could even push out the first word, the door of Dobson's office opened. It was his secretary.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but there's-"

Dobson cut her off. "I said no calls, Marcy."

"I know, but it's not for you. It's for Mr. Mann," she said. "Apparently, it's an emergency. Someone named Winston Smith?"

That got everyone staring at me. Although, with Dobson, it was more like glaring. If looks could kill. "No one outside this room is supposed to know you're here, Mr. Mann," he said.

Immediately, Crespin cleared his throat. Maybe he could just sense it, that something was up and I desperately needed a lifeline. Or maybe it was more than a sense. Perhaps he, too, had read 1984.

"Sorry, Clay, my bad," said Crespin. "Mr. Mann's sister is being operated on this morning, and that's his nephew calling to let him know how it went. For obvious reasons, Mr. Mann ditched his cell phone once this whole ordeal started."

I watched and listened to Crespin with nothing short of amazement. He was so calm, so convincing. The guy could probably fool a polygraph, if he had to. He had to be the best liar I'd ever met.

Actually, make that the second best.

Dobson nodded to his secretary. "Put it through."

As she disappeared back to her desk, he handed me his phone. The longest two seconds of my life followed as I waited for the call to be transferred.

Click.

"Winston, is that you?" I asked.

"Yes, it's me," said Owen. "And what Dobson just told you is bulls.h.i.t."

CHAPTER 108.

THE QUESTIONS were bouncing around in my head so fast and deliriously I could feel my brain smushed up against my skull just trying to contain them all.

Where has Owen been? How did he know I was in Dobson's office, let alone what was being said? And who's the "new friend" he went on to mention, the one he wants me to meet?

The only thing close to an answer-or, better yet, what would get me closer to all the answers-was the address Owen gave me before hanging up. But not before first telling me I had to come alone. "For real, Trevor. I mean it. Just you."

Of course, that went over like a fart in an elevator with Valerie and Crespin. Especially Crespin. He and his Spidey sense had bailed me out in Dobson's office, and this was how I repaid him? I'm off to go meet the kid, but you can't come?

"I'll be back, I promise," I said. "And I'll do everything I can to have Owen with me."

It was either detain me or let me go. They let me go.

Almost one hour to the dot after saying good-bye on the phone in Dobson's office to my nephew, Winston Smith, I arrived at Fifteenth Street NW and Madison Drive.

If the Jeopardy! category is Well-Known Washington Addresses, I'll admit that I tap out with 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Besides, who really needs to know the address of the Washington Monument? All you have to do is look up, right?

"Father, I cannot tell a lie," came a voice over my shoulder.

I turned to see Owen, smiling at his own cleverness about the line and our location, although I knew he hadn't chosen it for the irony. Just because I thought I'd come alone didn't mean I actually had. The flat, sprawling grounds of the Washington Monument, with nothing but a circle of skinny flagpoles for cover, were his way of making sure that even if I had been followed, no one was within earshot.

Speaking of hearing things on the sly ...

Owen pivoted to his right. "Trevor, I'd like you to meet Lawrence Ba.s.s," he said.

I pushed aside what was now the latest question in the long queue-How the h.e.l.l did these two ever meet up?-and shook the man's hand.

I knew exactly who Ba.s.s was. Namely because of what he wasn't-the next director of the CIA. Owen and I had watched him withdraw his name on television, standing in the East Room, flanked lovingly by his wife and two young daughters. We'd listened to him explain that he wanted to spend more time with his family. And we'd both known he was lying.

"Wait a minute," I said, turning back to Owen. Gone fishing? Lawrence Ba.s.s? "This is where you went?"

"No one just walks away from being named CIA director," Owen said. "There had to be more to it, not that I was really expecting Lawrence to divulge anything. But as it turns out, he was doing some fishing of his own."

True to his military background, Ba.s.s took the cue and didn't dillydally. Nor was there much emotion. The guy seemed to have everything wrapped in a blanket of calm and measured.

"Last week, I paid a visit to Clay Dobson in his office," he said. "And I never really left."

With that, Ba.s.s reached into his pocket and held out an iPhone. I recognized the app he tapped; it was the same one Claire always used to edit and organize her interviews. Voice Recorder HD.

Let the answers begin.

CHAPTER 109.