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o’clock already. Of course I’ll stay if there’s anything we need to go over. Is there?”
    “No. I think it’s going to be fine.” They walked along in silence for a while, then Murphy said, “You’re going to see Trotter tonight, aren’t you?”
    “I think so.” Actually, she was damned sure of it. “Why?”
    “Be careful about him, okay? Everything about him on the surface is fine, but I’ve got a feeling ...”
    Regina laughed. “So did I, when I first met him. It’s okay, Sean. You’d like Allan, if you could get to know him.”
    “Then it’s unanimous. Your mother tells me not to worry, too.”
    “Good. But you’re sweet to care. Good night.”
    “Yeah,” Murphy said. “Good night.”

Chapter Four
    T ROTTER PULLED THE EVENING report off the Teletype machine in the locked room next to the study. His “Special Assistant” tag was a convenient excuse for him to have a Teletype room in his house, in case anyone noticed. He didn’t go around bringing it to anyone’s attention. The machine itself was unremarkable, though the circuitry included sophisticated tamper-alarms and the latest in anti-bugging devices, specially installed by Jake Feder, who’d once again come out of a Florida retirement to help the Agency.
    Three times a day (more if necessary) the machine brought detailed reports of what the Agency was up to. The reports were compiled by the Washington staff, most of whom thought they were working for a crooked international cartel instead of an independent, hyper-secret agency of the government of the United States. The fact that it was much easier to recruit people to gather intelligence for (supposedly) a group of conscienceless economic royalists that it was to find them willing to do the same for their country was a sign of something unhealthy, Trotter wasn’t sure what.
    The reports were in code. Code was much safer than cipher. With computers as smart as they were these days, any cipher could be broken, if you got a big-enough sample for it. A code on the other hand, where the word “ ELBOW ” could have the previously agreed-upon meaning, “Meet the Cuban defector at 9:15 P.M. on the north end of parking lot AA at Kennedy Airport,” and the phrase “ URGENT NO HITCH IN SARCASM EFFACED—THEY LOOK LIKE BEARS—PLEASE ADVISE ” could mean (as it did today) “nothing to report,” was practically unbreakable, assuming, of course, the key to the code did not fall into the wrong hands. Since the copy of the book in Washington was as safe as vaults and personnel screening could make it, and Trotter’s copy had been memorized and dissolved in acid months ago, he didn’t worry about it.
    The reports had shown a quiet day. The biggest news was that the operative they had infiltrating a racist skinhead group in Colorado was now a fully accepted member of the gang. There was no sign yet of any foreign influence, should he keep looking? Trotter had sent a ten sentence reply that meant “yes.” The afternoon report was all various forms of “nothing to report,” which suited Trotter fine. The evening report was more of the same.
    Except at the very end, where it said, “ BIRDS CLOGGING FEEDER PIPE—SUMMON ELECTRICIAN .”
    That meant to report to the Congressman. In person. As soon as possible.
    “As soon as possible” in this case meant grabbing a plane tomorrow morning about eight—for years, Trotter had made it a point to memorize all the public transportation schedules of any town he happened to find himself in—which would get him to Washington about ten-thirty or so, which meant he had something like twelve hours to wonder what the hell the old man wanted.
    It was, of course, useless to try to guess, so that’s what he did. The paper shredder hummed background music as he got rid of the day’s reports and speculated.
    It could be a personnel problem. Fenton Rines, who had resigned from the FBI and now ran the Agency’s Washington operation, had had too much and