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  The class ran ten minutes over—which was common with Torrent, because nobody wanted him to stop talking. And after class, many lingered to talk to him about the papers they were writing. Everyone was terrified of his acid pen, firing volleys of savage criticism across their pages. They wanted to get it right on the first draft.

  Reuben didn’t care about grades, mostly because he earned A’s in everything. So when class ended, he always left at once. Today, though, Torrent waved him over before he could leave. By staying, Reuben was blowing off Contemporary African Conflicts. But when a man like Torrent calls, you come because it matters what Torrent thinks about everything. Even you.

  Finally they were alone in the room.

  “Major Reuben Malich,” Torrent said. “It’s not so much that I like the way you think, it’s that I like the fact that you think at all.”

  “We all think, sir.”

  “No, my good soldier, we do not all think. Thinking is rare and growing rarer, especially in the universities. Students succeed here to the degree they can convince idiots that they think just like them.”

  “The professors aren’t all idiots.”

  “Grad school is like junior high: You learn to get along. That’s half of who ends up in grad school in the first place—the suck-ups and get-alongs. You’re only here because you were ordered to come. You’d rather be in the Middle East. Leading troops in combat. Yes?”

  Reuben didn’t answer.

  “Very careful of you,” said Torrent. “I have just one question for you. If I told you that the civil war I’m talking about were being planned right now, just how far would you go?”

  “I’d do nothing to help either side, and anything to prevent it from happening.”

  “But those are the two sides, before the fighting starts—the hotheads on one side, the rational people on the other, trying to rein them in.”

  “Soldiers don’t have the power to prevent wars, sir, except by being so invincible that no enemy would dare to engage.”

  “Are you willing to trust your life—the lives of your family—on that belief—that civil war is impossible?”

  “Exactly, sir. I already trust my family’s life to that belief. It’s like an asteroid colliding with Earth. It certainly will happen, someday. But right now, there’s no urgency about figuring out how to avoid it.”

  “And when an asteroid does come toward Earth, how will you know? See it yourself?”

  “No, sir, I’ll trust astronomers to let us know. And I know where you’re going—you believe you’re the astronomer who’s warning us about a social and political collision.”

  “More like a weatherman, tracking the storm and watching it grow to hurricane strength.”

  “Standing in front of the camera in the rain, strapped to a lightpole?”

  Torrent grinned. “You understand me perfectly.”

  “What are you proposing, sir?” said Reuben. “You were proposing something, right?”

  “There are those who are trying to prevent the civil war. People who are in a position to share key information, to keep dangerous weapons out of the hands of those who would use them to provoke this war that nobody wants.”

  “Working on a doctorate at Princeton isn’t exactly a key position.”

  “But you graduate after this semester, n’est-ce pas?”

  “And go back into the Army, sir. I already have my assignment, protecting American interests abroad.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Torrent. “Special Ops. Nice work in that country-we-cannot-name.”

  Reuben had run into this before—people pretending to have inside information in order to try to get the information from him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. I’m not in Special Ops.”

  “I think you were dead right to open fire when you did, and you should have gotten the Oscar for the way you wept over that dead old man.”

  So maybe he did know something. That didn’t mean Reuben could trust him. “I’m not much of a weeper, sir.”

  “You’d be the first person ever to win an Oscar for a performance that actually saved lives.”

  “I believe you’re trying to compromise me, sir, and I won’t do it.”

  “Dammit,” said Torrent, “I’m trying to find out if you’d be interested in a covert assignment to help hold this country together and prevent its collapse into pure chaos.”

  “And its passage into empire.”

  “If there were some way you could help in an effort to prevent civil war, to preserve the republic, such as it is, how far would you be willing to go?”

  “I’m a major in the United States Army, sir. I will never do anything contrary to my oath.”

  “Yes,” said Torrent. “Yes, that’s what I’m counting on. You’re a superb student, you know that. The best I’ve had in years. And I know people, within and outside the government, who are involved in quiet efforts to prevent civil war. You have my solemn oath that anyone who contacts you in my name will never ask you to do anything that would violate yours.”

  “I’ll listen. That’s all I promise.”

  “Then listen to this. The first test is whether or not you tell your wife.”

  “I tell Cessy everything that isn’t classified. If you don’t like that, count me out.”

  “What if the knowledge might get her killed?”

  “Then I’d be sure to tell her. Because if somebody thinks I might have told her, they’ll kill her whether I really did or not. So she might as well understand the risk.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Torrent.

  “You are?”

  “That was the test. If you’d betray your wife and do something like this behind her back, you’d betray anybody.” With a grin, Torrent picked up his now-stuffed briefcase and left the room.

  Reuben headed for his next class, hopelessly late, with his mind racing. He just recruited me. I don’t even know what the conspiracy is, and he recruited me just by appealing to my intelligence, my loyalties, my desire to be in on the action.

  The trouble was, this did appeal to him in all those ways and more besides.

  He’s got me pegged, Reuben realized. The only question remaining was: Is Torrent a good guy? If I join whatever clandestine work he’s got going, will I be on the right side?

  THREE

  NEW BOY

  Heroic love is to do what is best for the loved one, disregarding desire, trust, and cost. Unfortunately, it is impossible to know what is best for anyone.

  Captain Coleman—Cole, to his friends—still wasn’t sure whether getting assigned to Major Malich was the opportunity of a lifetime or the dead end of his military career.

  On the one hand, as soon as Cole got the Pentagon assignment, high-ranking people started dropping hints that Malich was regarded as more than merely promising—war hero in Special Ops, brilliant in strategic and tactical thinking, with the only real question being whether he would end up his career commanding in the field or from the Pentagon. “You just got your wagon hitched to the right horse, Cole,” said one general that dropped by his new office apparently just to tell him that.

  On the other hand, he’d been in his new position for three days and he hadn’t met Malich and couldn’t find out from anybody where he was.

  “He goes out, he comes back,” said the division secretary.

  “Goes where, does what?”

  “Goes away” she said with a tight smile, “and eventually returns.”

  “Are you not telling me because you don’t know, or because you don’t trust me yet?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t trust you yet,” she said.

  “So what do I do while I wait for him to come back?”

  “Is this your first time in the Pentagon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go out and see the sights.”

  “It’s not my first time in DC,” said Cole. “My parents took me to all the museums and I’ve already waited in line to see Congress and t
he Declaration of Independence and I’ve climbed the Washington Monument to the top.”

  “Then go to Hain’s Point or Great Falls of the Potomac and say ooh and aah, and get on a bicycle and ride the W&O trail from Leesburg to Mount Vernon. Or stay here and I’ll give you a whole box of pencils to sharpen.”

  “What are you working on while he’s gone?”

  “I’m the division secretary. I work for all the officers, including the Colonel. Once every two months, Major Malich gives me something to do. Other than that, I take messages for him and explain to his confused subordinates how they can kill time till he comes back so he can tell them nothing in person.”

  “Tell them nothing—you mean even when he’s here he—”

  “Why do you think you’re replacing a good man who only stayed for one month? Who replaced another good man who lasted three months because Major Malich gave him a huge pile of scutwork assignments without ever telling him what they were for and then thanked him and left him to sharpen pencils?”

  “So you don’t expect me to stay.”

  “I expect you to grow old and die on the job here.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” said the secretary, “that I’ve given up trying to understand Major Malich’s role in this building and I’ve also given up trying to help young officers who are assigned to him. What’s the point?”

  So here he was, three days later, with his pencils sharpened, having seen the statue of the giant at Hain’s Point and the new World War II Memorial and the FDR Memorial and the Great Falls of the Potomac. Was it too soon to put in for a transfer? Shouldn’t he at least meet Malich before trying to get away from him?

  Cole could imagine Major Malich’s arrival in the office.

  “What have you been doing while you waited for me to get back,” Malich would say.

  “Waiting for you, sir.”

  “In other words, nothing. Don’t you have any initiative?”

  “But I don’t even know what we’re working on! How can I—”

  “You’re an idiot. Put in for a transfer. I’ll sign it and hope that next time they’ll send me somebody with a brain in his head and a spark of ambition.”

  Oh, wait. That wasn’t Malich speaking. That was Cole’s father, Christopher Coleman, who believed in only two things: That people named Coleman should have really long first names (Cole’s was “Bartholomew“) and that nothing his son did could possibly measure up to his expectations.

  Malich probably wouldn’t even notice Cole was there. Why should he? As long as Cole was doing nothing, it didn’t matter whether he was there or not.

  So Cole left his office and crossed the hall to the secretary. “What am I supposed to call you?” he asked.

  She pointed to her nameplate.

  “So you really go by DeeNee Breen.”

  She glared at him. “It’s the name my parents gave me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “That’s even worse than Bartholomew.”

  She didn’t smile. This was going well.

  “I need some information.”

  “I won’t have it, but go ahead.”

  “Is Major Malich married?”

  “Yes.”

  “See? You did know.”

  “Her name is Cecily. They have five children. I don’t know the children’s names or ages, but one of them is young enough to have been crying one of the few times Mrs. Malich called here looking for her husband and there’s a family picture on his desk but I don’t know how old it is so that doesn’t help with the ages. The children are boy boy girl girl boy. Debriefing over, sir?”

  Cole realized now that she did have a sense of humor—but it was so dry that it came across as hostility. So he made another try at winning her over with wit. “It’s improper for me to discuss debriefing you, DeeNee Breen,” said Cole.

  She either didn’t get the joke or it was a Pentagon cliché or she thought it was hilarious but chose not to encourage him.

  “Miz Breen, I need to know the address and telephone number of Mrs. Malich.”

  “I don’t have that information,” she said.

  “They don’t give Major Malich’s contact information to the division secretary? What if the Colonel wants him?”

  “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear,” she said. “Major Malich does not consult with me. He does not give me assignments. I take his messages and when he comes in to the office, I give them to him. I have never needed to tell him his wife’s address and telephone number. No one else has wanted it either. Therefore I do not have that information.”

  “But you do have a phone book,” said Cole. “And a telephone. And an imagination. And some of your time is supposed to be used in support of Major Malich’s work.”

  “You don’t even know what Major Malich’s work is.”

  “But with your valuable assistance, Miz Breen, I will find out.”

  “From his wife?”

  “Now you’ve connected the dots.”

  She reached under her desk and pulled out a phone book. “I have real work to do,” she said. “Assignments that are urgently needed for the ongoing projects of officers who actually work here and know what they’re doing. However, if you find out that information, I would be happy to record the results of your research so that I can answer this question for the next person to hold your fascinating position.”

  “You have a gift for sarcasm, Miz Breen.” He took the phone book from her desk. “Please feel free to practice it on me whenever you want.”

  “It takes the fun out of it, if you give me permission,” she said.

  It took ten minutes to find out that Reuben and Cecily Malich lived in a housing development off Algonkian Parkway in Potomac Falls, Virginia.

  Cecily Malich sounded cheerful on the telephone when he introduced himself as Major Malich’s new subordinate. Or whatever his job description was supposed to be.

  “He gets a captain again?” she said. “How interesting.”

  “It might be,” he said, “if I knew anything at all. Such as when he’s expected back in the office.”

  “Why, hasn’t he been in lately?”

  “I’ve been here three days and have yet to meet him.”

  “Interesting,” she said.

  “I don’t even have enough information for my lack of information to be interesting,” said Cole. “I hoped you could enlighten me about a few things. Like what we do here in this office.”

  “It’s classified.”

  “But I’m cleared to know it.”

  “But I’m not,” she said. It was nice of her to leave off the “duh.”

  “So you won’t help me? I just want to make myself useful to him, and I don’t know how I can do that if he doesn’t come in to the office. I’m not sure he even knows that he has a new captain assigned to him.”

  “Oh, he knows,” she said.

  “He mentioned it?”

  “No,” she said. “But he makes it a point to know everything about the people who work with him, including the fact that they work with him. Believe me, he knows all about you and my guess is he specifically asked for you in this assignment.”

  That was gratifying, even if it was only a guess. “But what is the assignment?”

  “I assume you already asked around the office.”

  “Nobody knows. Nobody cares.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t report to anyone they know.”

  “Who does he report to?”

  “Well, clearly he doesn’t report to me or you.”

  “Mrs. Malich, I’m drowning here. Throw me something that floats.”

  She laughed. “Come out to the house. I’m a cooky-baking wife and it’s summer vacation. Chocolate chips or snickerdoodles?”

  “Ma’am, anything you offer will be gratefully received.”

  It was more of a house than Cole would have expected on a major’s salary, though still hardly a mansion. There were four bikes on the front l
awn, two of them tiny with training wheels, which suggested that the kids were home from some sort of expedition.

  “No, I only have little John Paul here,” she said, indicating the three-year-old who was studiously drawing something with crayons at the kitchen table. There were, as promised, chocolate chip cookies on a cooling rack.

  “I just thought, with the bikes on the lawn . . .”

  “The kids have been told to put their bikes away. Often enough that we refuse to remind them again. They know that any bike that is stolen from the front yard will not be replaced by us. So there they sit. Reuben will mow around them before he’ll move them an inch.”

  “So he does come home often enough to mow the lawn.”

  She looked at him like he was crazy. “Reuben is home every night, except when he’s traveling, and he’s never gone for more than a few days. It’s really been quite nice since he got this Pentagon assignment. It’s a far cry from the days when he’d be gone sometimes a year at a time, with only a few messages.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “I take it you don’t have a wife,” said Mrs. Malich. “Or you’d already know all about it.”

  “I’m Special Ops, like your husband,” he said. “Not much time for dating, and I couldn’t imagine asking a woman I actually cared about to marry somebody who might be killed at any time.”

  “Yes, that’s a hard thing. But husbands die of other things, not just bullets. It’s a risk everybody takes when they marry—that the other person might die. Much higher risk that they’ll cheat on you or leave you. So I chose to marry a man who will never cheat on me and never leave me. Yes, he might be killed at any time, but my odds of keeping him are still far higher than the national average. And now that he’s working at the Pentagon, he’s far less likely to come home covered with a flag. Instead he brings home whatever groceries I ask him to bring.”

  “So you call him during the day.”

  “Of course.”

  “But the secretary said—”