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shred of good news. My source at the Barnyard told me the man spearheading the hunt for you is a DIA agent named Mark Stephens. Stephens is not his real name of course, but who uses their real names in this business? I will send you his file when we are done here. You will see he is a most capable man. In fact, many believe he is one of the best Beekeepers in the DIA. He used to run abduction and rendition operations against hostile enemy targets for the Air Force. Now, he has been assigned to a black bag outfit they are calling G-One for some reason.” The Dean laughed. “G-One. The bureaucrats love their codenames.”
    But Hicks didn’t laugh. He had worked with Beekeepers before and knew they weren’t only interrogators. They didn’t grab high value targets off the street and beat confessions out of them. They carefully chose their targets and played them for the long haul—pumping them for information with methods specifically crafted for the target’s psychological profile. They nurtured a prisoner and got them as comfortable or as uncomfortable as it took to extract information from them, the same way a beekeeper gets honey.
    Stephens wasn’t some cowboy hacking off jihadi limbs in the desert or beating some poor bastard with a phone book. Beekeeping was a tough, tedious job only a certain kind of person could do.
    People like Roger Cobb and James Hicks.
    Hicks chose his next question carefully. “Were you able to determine if Stephens knows anything about my identity, sir? Or of the University?”
    “All they seem to have for the moment is your image, which they were able to trace back to New York City by using traffic cameras and other media. It took considerable effort, but as much as I despise them, I do not question their abilities or resources. They have confirmed your presence in New York. As they do not know who you are or who you work for, you should expect them to try to apprehend you. Their interest in you will only be heightened by our success in spiking their surveillance of you. For obvious reasons, we cannot allow them to succeed.”
    “I know, sir.” He closed his eyes and steeled himself for the standard lecture he knew was coming.
    “So I assume you also know The Barnyard and their ilk have been trying to get a toehold in our institution for years. Throughout our existence, we have managed to avoid a direct confrontation with them by posing as helpful amateurs who pass along information as we get it. They have taken us at our word because we have never stood in their way. Now, we have something they want. The Moroccan. Unfortunately, we cannot give him to them without tipping our hand and proving our existence.” Another long silence. “Do you appreciate the difficulty your rash actions have caused for both our current mission and the broader mission of the University, James?”
    Hicks had been the target of the Dean’s anger several times in his career. There was only one way to respond to such a question. “What do you want me to do, sir?”
    “The wolves may not be at the door yet, James, but we can certainly hear them baying in the forest. I will attempt to delay them as much as possible, but they have your scent now. This is why it is essential for you to break The Moroccan and break him quickly. Employ all methods at your disposal and hold nothing back.”
    “I will, but I can’t go too far, sir. Our agreement with the Mossad in exchange for their silence…”
    “Our agreement with our Israeli friends is secondary. Find out what the prisoner knows and report back to me immediately. The information he provides may be enough to stave off our enemies before Stephens and his ilk find you. Time has suddenly become a luxury we no longer have.”
    The Dean killed the connection.
    Hicks tried to stall his growing headache by squeezing the bridge of his nose. His hand began to shake, but he willed it to stop. He read between the lines of what the Dean had told him.
    Stephens wasn’t