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more frightened than confused.
    The professor hesitated, and she saw, for the first time, the kindliness beneath the cynical mask. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”
    He left.
III
    The taller man turned out to be from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and had the laminated credentials to prove it. His name was Stilwell, and the pugnacious set of his slim jaw told her that he was prepared to disbelieve every word out of her mouth. The broader of the two was Borkland. He represented the State Department, and his role in the drama seemed to be to smile conciliation every time his counterpart was rude.
    “You’re from New York, aren’t you?” Stilwell began, without preamble. “Born in New Rochelle, isn’t that right?”
    “Yes, sir,” said Margo to the space between the two men. The office was dark wood and books, and large enough for this six-person conference table along with Niemeyer’s desk. Photographs along the far wall expressed the gratitude of the world’s leaders. A grandfather clock in the corner ticked far too loudly, or perhaps it was just that her senses were on high alert.
    “What year?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    Stilwell had long pianist’s fingers, but when he laid his hands on the table, the fingers pointed like twin guns. “What year were you born, Miss Jensen?”
    “Um, 1943.”
    “You hesitated.”
    “I—”
    “Mother’s name?”
    “Dorothea Jensen.”
    “I meant her maiden name.”
    Borkland was smoking a short-stemmed pipe. His puffing made the air thick and heavy. Margo stifled a cough, instinct telling her to display no weakness. “My mother’s maiden name was Massey. May I ask—”
    “Father was a doctor?”
    She looked at him very straight. “He wanted to be. He died in the war.”
    Stilwell made a sound. “I meant your mother’s father, not yours.”
    “We’re just doing a job, you see,” murmured Borkland, a rare interjection. He adjusted his glasses, gave a helpless shrug. “Sorry, Miss Jensen, that’s the way it is.”
    Underneath the table, Margo had taken hold of the skin on the inside of her wrist, and was pinching it, hard, a trick she used in the classroom to keep a tremor out of her voice.
    “My mother’s father wasn’t a doctor. He was a doorman at a Manhattan hotel. He and his wife also had a store in New Rochelle.” She fought the urge to lick her lips. “My father’s father was the doctor.”
    “So your father married beneath his station, did he?” said Stilwell. “You say he wanted to be a doctor, too?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because it says here he drove a truck in the war.”
    Margo squeezed tighter, but this time refused to drop her eyes. She spoke the words with her grandmother’s bitterness, for Nana told the story often, and with anger. “My father was a brilliant man. He had a degree in chemical engineering. From here. He made Phi Beta Kappa. He planned to go to medical school. And because he was a Negro, the United States Army made him drive a truck.” Although she realized that she sounded snappish, retreat was not her style. “Anyway, I don’t see why this is any of your business. What’s this about?”
    Borkland, the diplomat, trampled on Stilwell’s annoyed response. “I’m afraid we’re not allowed to say, Miss Jensen. Not just yet. In a bit, after this part of the interview is over.” The smile seemed waterproof. “As Professor Niemeyer said, the nation’s security is at stake. I know that’s hard for you to accept. For the moment, I only ask you to bear with us.” With that, he put the pipe back in his mouth.
    Margo’s gaze slipped from one man to the other, before settling in the middle distance, where a younger Niemeyer, in black and white, leaned over President Truman’s shoulder, pointing to a line in a document.
    “A man followed me on campus the other day,” she said, instinct screaming not to let these cold bureaucrats master the conversation. “He pretended to be an alumnus, but he was taking