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Paul’s father had a saying he often repeated when he was teaching his son forestry skills. “A thousand days of evasion is better than one day of captivity.” Stan Brightman had learned that wisdom in Vietnam. And it always struck Paul as ridiculous. Evasion? From whom? Captivity? By whom? The Vietcong? A ten-year-old didn’t imagine he’d ever be in danger of being kidnapped by anyone. But now Paul recalled the saying bitterly as he sat on a bus that reeked like a toilet bowl.

Most of the buses that went from Boston to Manassas, Virginia, transferred at the Port Authority bus terminal in Manhattan. But he didn’t dare return to New York City, not now. They would be looking for him there.

When he got to the bus terminal near South Station, in Boston, he had discovered that there was exactly one bus that went to D.C. without changing at Port Authority. That bus took over nine hours and drove through the night, arriving early in the morning.

Paul had paid another homeless person to buy him a ticket. Paid generously, in fact.

At five fifty-three in the morning, when it was still dark, the bus pulled into Union Station in Washington. Paul found a Blue Bottle Coffee that was open, bought a coffee and a hot breakfast sandwich. Then he spotted an office for an off-brand car rental agency, but the place didn’t open until eight. He tanked up on coffee—he’d slept badly on the bus—and waited. At eight, he rented a Jeep Compass, using a couple of prepaid debit cards—being sure to include a five-hundred-dollar cash deposit in case of damages—and drove to Manassas.

The ambassador had probably done him harm, but at least he’d given him a name of someone who might be helpful.

*

Philip Horgan’s house was modest but set on a large lot, far apart from its neighbors. A squat brick structure with small windows, it looked like a miniature fortress. The blinds and curtains were all shut. The lawn badly needed mowing. The place looked abandoned. Or maybe the ex-CIA officer didn’t do yard work.

Paul pulled into the long asphalt driveway, which was cracked and pitted. He noticed security cameras mounted on every corner of the house he could see, and another mounted above the closed garage door. And when he reached the small porch, he glimpsed a motion-sensor dome camera mounted to its ceiling. In fact, there wasn’t a way to approach the house that wasn’t covered by security cameras.

As he climbed the three brick steps to the front door, he heard a voice crackling over an intercom installed next to the door.

“Get the hell off my property,” the voice said. In the background Paul heard what sounded like low canine growling.

“Mr. Horgan? My name is Paul Brightman. I need to talk with—”

The front door swung open and something large hurtled out in a blur, an immense black-and-brown dog with a blocky head, muscular body, vicious teeth, and a deep, ferocious bark. Paul saw its ears prick up, a big chain around the dog’s neck.

There was no time to run. He knew there were things you were supposed to do when attacked by a dog. You were supposed to stand still, never run. You were supposed to break eye contact. But all rational thought had deserted him in an instant. The dog was on him so close he could smell the animal’s foul breath.

Paul found himself pinned up against the garage door, the Dobermann growling and barking and lunging at him.

Its owner stood behind the dog, pointing a gun. “By the laws of the Commonwealth of Virginia,” the man said, “I have the right to use deadly force. Now, what the hell are you doing on my property?” The man was balding on top with long gray hair below that touched his shoulders.

“Jesus, call off your dog! I’m not here to harm you. I need your help.”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Like I said, my name is Paul Brightman, and—”

“Brutus, off .” The dog immediately sat on its haunches but continued growling. “Prove you are who you say you are. Let me see your driver’s license.”

“I . . . don’t have one.” He had gotten rid of all his Paul Brightman documents. Left them all—his passport, his driver’s license, his Social Security card, his credit cards—in a safe-deposit box at a Citizens bank branch in Derryfield. Hoping never to have to use them again.

He should have introduced himself as Grant Anderson. At least he had a driver’s license in that name.

“You don’t drive?”

“I don’t have any of my documents with me. If I were some kind of spy or something, wouldn’t I have my fake documents at hand?”

Philip Horgan paused, tilted his head. “You might have a point.”

“I want to ask you about Phantom.”

Horgan’s eyes widened. “Who the hell are you?”