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While Paul was in the shower, he thought about what Chad had said. They say they have me on video leaving the office at two in the morning last week.

Paul had deliberately worn the standard-issue young-investment-professional uniform: the quilted Orvis vest, the Yankees cap, the Stan Smiths. He’d meant to look like anyone in the firm. Plenty of guys wore Yankees caps, though not Paul. But maybe the Stan Smiths were a mistake—Chad wore them.

He felt queasy with guilt. He didn’t know what to do.

He heard his phone ring. Dripping wet from the shower, he grabbed it off the bathroom vanity, saw that the caller was Mr. Frost.

“Yes?”

“When you come into work this morning, please come directly to my office,” Frost said, and the line went dead.

At about the same time, his phone plinked with an incoming Signal text notification. That could be only one person: Special Agent Addison. They were already scheduled to meet at noon; was Addison canceling for some reason?

The phone slipped out of Paul’s wet hand and hit the tile floor. “Shit,” he said. He leaned over, picked it up. The screen wasn’t cracked; the phone looked okay. He clicked on the FBI man’s text message:

Do NOT go into work, leave the apartment immediately, meet now.

He felt his heart whumping in his ear. Maybe they had found the tracker in Galkin’s briefcase after all. Oh, Jesus.

He dressed quickly, throwing on jeans and sneakers and a sweatshirt.

Tatyana, who was just waking up, saw him and said, “Where are you going?”

“Casual day at work,” he lied. He kissed her, wondered if this was the last time he’d ever do so.

Then he walked quickly downtown to East Houston Street and entered one of the few remaining old-style delicatessens in New York City. Addison was sitting at a table, a bagel and lox and cream cheese half-eaten on the table before him. Next to him sat a slightly pudgy young woman with short dark hair.

“Glad you made it,” Addison said. “This is Special Agent Stephanie Trombley. She’s just joined our team.”

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Paul said. Turning to Addison, he said, “What’s going on?”

“One of your colleagues, Chad Forrester?”

“Yeah?”

“Forrester was hit by a car early this morning. He’s dead, Paul.”