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Hargrave.
    Since then Wilson had explored every conceivable avenue around the man, but he’d been stymied. As the director himself eventually told Wilson, “The Federal Bureau of Investigation is big on chain of command for a reason.” Wilson disagreed with them both, but he was not so bullheaded as to run afoul of the director, so he kept Hargrave informed of his every decision, no matter how small. Wilson got the sense that Hargrave knew what he was up to, but so far the man had remained unflappable. Tonight’s developments, however, might be enough to undo him.
    But for now, Wilson was once again forced to perform this stupid dance. That was why he was rolling along this beautiful tree-lined street in Chevy Chase when he should have been with the rest of his team boarding one of the Bureau’s Gulfstream 550s for a jaunt halfway around the globe. The vehicle began to slow and Wilson noticed his driver searching for the right address.
    “It’s up there on the left,” Wilson said. “The white Colonial with green shutters.” Under his breath he added, “Boring . . . just like his personality.”
    “Excuse me, sir?” The young agent asked.
    “Nothing,” Wilson replied.
    Cal Patterson was in his third year with the Bureau and he considered himself a lucky man to be one of the youngest agents in the Counterintelligence Division. He liked his job, but his boss made him nervous. Patterson casually turned the wheel of the Ford Taurus and edged the sedan into the narrow drive. “Anything you’d like me to take care of while you’re briefing the EAD, boss?”
    Wilson grabbed the handle and said, “Check in with the Go Team. I want everyone on that plane and their gear stowed when we arrive. We should have been in the air an hour ago.”
    “I’ll let them know, sir.”
    Wilson closed the car door and proceeded up the brick-lined walkway. He glanced through what looked like the dining room window and could see the faint glow of a light in what he presumed was the kitchen. The front stoop was small—enough for two people. Wilson reached out to press the doorbell and then caught himself. Probably better to knock at this hour. He held his left hand up to the door and rapped his knuckles twice on the green door. He waited a long moment and then heard the locking mechanism turn. The door cracked to reveal the high forehead of Samuel Hargrave. Without so much as a nod, Hargrave opened the door and motioned for Wilson to enter.
    The senior man closed the door and started down the center hallway to the back of the house. Wilson took in the black leather slippers, the Black Watch plaid pajama bottoms, and the navy blue robe. The man looked as if he’d stepped off the set of a Cary Grant movie. Wilson started to ponder what is was like to be born fifty years too late, but before he got too far Hargrave asked him if he’d like a cup of coffee.
    “No, thank you. I’ve already had my fill and I have a long flight ahead of me.”
    Hargrave stared at him for a moment, dissecting the words, trying to figure out a shaded message. He poured himself a cup of black coffee and sat at the small four-person kitchen table. After a sip, he asked, “Long flight . . . where are you headed?”
    “Afghanistan.” Wilson offered nothing more.
    “Afghanistan is a big country. Any place in particular?”
    “Jalalabad.”
    “Jalalabad,” Hargrave mused. “I think this is a first.”
    “A first?” Wilson frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”
    Hargrave had told him to call him Sam a hundred times, but Wilson still refused. It was a control thing, he knew, but Hargrave wasn’t willing to make a big deal out of something so petty. Still it was one more reason to worry that his acting director of Counterintelligence was someone who needed close monitoring. If he played these kinds of games with him, what must he be like with his colleagues and subordinates? How were his convictions when it came to following the law? Hargrave had