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something about how it faltered because of the scar, that made George want to look away. And there was something about Reiper’s eyes. In the warm light of the conference room’s meticulously positioned spotlights they sometimes looked green, sometimes brown. Cool and expectant, they seemed to change color at random. Combined with the fact that he never seemed to blink, it gave Reiper the lazily ironic, utterly lethal expression of a reptile.
    ‘So this is the deal,’ Reiper said and slid a couple of stapled documents across the table at George.
    ‘I know you’re very proud of your discretion here at Merchant and Taylor, but then I also know you sing like canaries when the tide turns. Purely a formality, of course.’
    George picked up the document and flipped through it quickly. It was a classic nondisclosure agreement between him and Digital Solutions. He couldn’t reveal anything of what they discussed in their meetings. He couldn’t even mention to anyone that he worked for Digital Solutions or was aware of their existence. If he were to do so, he could be liable for an almost astronomical amount, depending on the severity of his slipup. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Many clients were concerned about their anonymity and were not always willing to be associated with a public relations firm known for being as ruthless as Merchant & Taylor.
    ‘It says that it was signed in Washington, DC,’ George said at last. ‘But we’re in Brussels.’
    ‘Yes,’ replied Reiper, somewhat absently. He appeared to be reading something on his iPhone. ‘Our lawyers think that would make it easier to avoid what they call a forum dispute if that become necessary.’
    He shrugged and looked up from his phone.
    ‘But I’m sure you know more about nondisclosure agreements than I do?’
    There was a new sharpness in his voice. Something like interest flickered in his otherwise dead eyes. George felt ill at ease. Sure, he’d signed a series of similar contracts during his time at Merchant & Taylor. However, there was something about how Reiper had said it, something more complicated. George pushed the thought away. It was impossible. No one could know anything about that. Reiper’s allusion must just be a coincidence.
    George pulled his Montblanc out of his breast pocket, signed the contract with a quick flourish, and pushed it back across the table to Reiper.
    ‘There you go,’ he said, anxious to get the meeting started. ‘Maybe now we can begin?’
    ‘Excellent,’ Reiper replied absently. Without looking up from his iPhone, he folded the agreement carelessly and jammed it into the inside pocket of his worn jacket. Finally, he slid the phone into its holster with care and met George’s eyes.
    ‘We need help with a translation,’ he said. ‘To start with.’

5
August 1980
    Northern Virginia, USA
    Something is worrying her. I know that before Susan even opens her mouth. There’s nothing strange or supernatural about that. Over time I’ve learned to read the signs, the nuances, the shift of a glance, hands moving like frightened birds, as if by themselves, or not at all. I almost always know what people are going to say. It’s one of the thousands of ways I survive. But when she speaks, I don’t hear her. I can only see her gray suit, her dyed blond hair, and watery eyes. See the traces of her daily commute: the coffee stains on her shiny lapel.
    She lives in Beltsville, Greenbelt, Silver Spring. One of the endless suburbs where we all live. She drives a Ford, and everything she reads is classified. Like many of us, she’s stopped drinking. We either drink too much or not at all. Donuts and watery coffee in the Methodist Church on Sundays. Appreciative words about the choir, pointless conversations about preschools and vacations. Susan is so ordinary. An ordinary, ordinary all-American woman of thirty-five with a house and a mortgage and a new car every other year. She and her husband are trying to scrape