"Was Ulysses Morse as old as they say?"

The young woman's question had come out of the blue. In the five minutes since Bai Lin and Tommy had reached their unspoken agreement to be friends, their time had been spent raiding the small picnic basket Tommy had brought as a peace offering—Sam always said never come empty-handed—and sating their curiosity about how each had identified the other.

The young woman, who'd refused an offered utensil and now was nibbling pickled herring straight from the jar, had accepted Tommy's honest reply. He simply knew Gifted folks when he saw them. Apparently, the skill wasn't unheard of in her community of Gifted, which he presumed to be a large one. He wondered how large.

Time enough for that.

Tommy hadn't been alarmed at being recognized as "Kyle Wigand," though he probably should have been, given the fact that the name had been in circulation since the 1970s and he never appeared to be nearly that old. When he'd asked his new young friend about it, she'd replied with a simple, "Who else could you be?"

True enough. U.S. intelligence had a healthy dossier on Kyle Wigand and his many, many Gifts—the power of flight in itself was a rarity. Like as not, their Chinese counterparts had inveigled that information from someone, somehow. That fact alone told Tommy much about who he was up against. The Chinese government was well informed about them.

Still, it had reassured him when the young woman had snatched that name from the ether. Might she really know the name "Tommy Haas"? Maybe, but he doubted it. Time had made of him a good judge of human nature, and he almost always knew a lie when he heard it, even when spoken by a professional. The vibes he so far had from this young woman were good.

If anything, the youngster seemed a bit starstruck, and he quickly was growing to like her.

"What makes you think I'd know about Morse?" he replied.

"Mmm ...," she began, finishing another nibble of fish, "by my calculations, Kyle Wigand should be in his 50s or 60s. You don't look a day over 20."

"And all us old timers know one another?" He couldn't repress his mirth at her question. Perhaps the query about Morse hadn't been totally out of the blue. She clearly had done her homework and was fishing for information—and not just information about Morse. Great longevity among the Gifted was even more rare than flight.

The youngster bit her lip, as if pondering what she should say next—or attempting to shield a smile.

"You are both Americans," she said at last.

"What makes you think I'm an American? And when you say, 'they say,' who do you mean?"

"What?"

He repeated her words. "Was Ulysses Morse as old as they say?"

His new friend's mouth formed a surprised and delightful smile. "It's just a figure of speech."

Her reply was unadulterated bullshit. It was time to change tack. Tommy long ago had realized that giving trust was the best way to earn someone's trust. The young woman with him might be an intelligence officer—everything about her screamed it—but she seemed friendly and open. There was a great deal he could learn from her without inquiring about Chinese state secrets, which she wouldn't provide, and which would only put her on her guard if he asked about them directly.

He opted to begin with candor and to ask tougher questions later.

"I'm not interested in politics," he said. "I don't work for any government, though I'm sure you do. You don't need to tiptoe around me. Ask me anything you want to ask, and as long as it doesn't put me or my friends at risk, I'll tell you anything you want to know. Deal?"

The look in the woman's eyes was priceless, as if she'd just seen a unicorn for the first time. After a scant moment, she reached out and shook his hand.

"Deal."

Her first move was to call her office and say she'd be late.

Nothing in her short phone conversation suggested that she'd alerted anyone to his presence. No surprise there. The woman certainly needed no backup and, in all probability, would file a report on their meeting with Chinese counterintelligence the moment she returned to the embassy. Still, it wouldn't hurt to keep an eye out for surveillance.

They spent the next hour discussing Ulysses Morse, a conversation that slowly faded into a general conversation about the Gifted and their place in history. It wasn't unlike conversations he'd had with Camille Thomas the previous year. Just like Camille, his new friend sat in rapt attention at everything he said, occasionally taking a swig of whiskey or a nibble of smoked chicken from the basket between them.

Several times, the talk returned to Morse, a diversion that he suspected was meant to lead to revelations about the Hollirich conspiracy, of which Morse had been an important cog.

It also occurred to him, after some minutes more, that she was curious about him. Okay, then. In for a penny.

"I first encountered Morse at a regimental ball in London in 1902," he said in response to her unasked question. "It was part of the celebration leading up to the coronation of King Edward."

By that time, the friendly smile that had played across her lips for the past hour was gone, replaced by something different, something deeper.

"So, you were friends?"

"No. I never actually met the man—well, not until last year, right before I snapped his neck."

"Then how did ...?"

"He was pointed out to me. Not all of us have been circumspect about who we are and what we're capable of. Unlike someone like Morse, I'd always preferred to stay in the shadows. I still do." Then he added for emphasis. "Most of us do, especially nowadays."

"It's not ...," she began, before glancing over each shoulder, out of habit he imagined, "it's not so secretive where I'm from. Being like us is something ... well, it's an advantage. So, you didn't know Morse."

"I ran across him several times over the years. Why do you ask? He seems to fascinate you."

That smile returned. "I went to school in Hong Kong, the most delightful years of my life. My first year at university, I came across a small monograph in a bookshop just off Chancery Lane, written by a man named Colfax. It was one of those self-published affairs—I've never found another copy. In it, the author shares a tale told him by his grandfather of a man he'd met in India some years back, under the Raj. The man had fabulous powers."

"Morse, you mean?"

"Indirectly. Colfax talked briefly about an American called Ulysses."

"Was your degree in history?"

"Yes," she admitted, her smile widening. "Look, have you ever met anyone named Creighton-Philby?"

"After a fashion. I'm going out on a limb. Was this grandfather of Colfax's named Fellowes?"

"Yes!"

"Adrian Fellowes was a good friend of mine. He was the chap who pointed out Morse to me."

"Are ... so, you're Castor Creighton-Philby?"

"You could have just asked."

"I wasn't sure how," she lied.

He seized that statement as an opportunity to call foul on her continued evasiveness.

"Miss, I was trained as an intelligence officer back in the 1940s. I know what elicitation is, and I know that beating around the bush in that fashion is second nature to an intelligence officer—which you are. I told you once: ask me what you want. Your day job means next to nothing to me. I'm not the least interested in corporate espionage or whether you're here keeping tabs on the U.S. military. Governments spy on one another. Neither of us is going to change that."

"Then what?"

"Things went very badly for people like us in the U.S. after 1991. And you know what I mean. I suspect you keep very close tabs on our kind, and not just as a hobby left over from college."

"I'm not going to tell anyone about this meeting."

Her words took Tommy completely by surprise, not least of which because they sounded truthful. "That could go poorly for you, especially after your next counterintelligence polygraph."

The lovely young woman gave a derisive snort and delivered another surprising statement. "Who can't beat a polygraph?"

"You surprise me," was his honest reply. "I'd like us to be friends. But I have to be clear: if I catch even a whiff of a repeat of '91, I'm not sure that will be possible."

"You have nothing to fear."

"Then why are you in this country?"

"It's a plum assignment." She took another pull from the whiskey bottle, which by that time was nearly empty. Not a hint of inebriation could be seen on her. "I love my country. But the government at home took lessons away from 1991. Folks like me used to be veritable prisoners of the state. Now? It's an almost certain path to a successful career. We get our choice of assignments, and that includes overseas assignments if we perform well."

"You like living in Washington?"

"I love Washington, and everywhere else I've been in the United States. Just like I loved Hong Kong and London after that. Nobody wants another 1991. Nobody."

"Not even to strike a blow at world Capitalism?"

The young woman gave her first true laugh, a delightful trill. "Welcome to the 21st Century, Captain Creighton-Philby. China wants to own all of America's banks and factories, but not by war. We're going to win them through the free market."

Tommy had to join her in a laugh. Her words made him feel better, largely because he believed her. If there was some sort of plot afoot, this young woman would be the one to know about it. She certainly was an intelligence asset for a rival power, but that concerned him not a smidgen. If it wasn't her, it would be someone, and he now was glad he'd resisted the temptation to share too much information about Bai Lin and her companions with the SecDef. American authorities were on notice. Let that be enough.

Still, he fully intended to watch his new friends with a wary eye, a damn wary eye. Government policies changed like the wind. He was beginning to trust this young woman, but she didn't set Chinese foreign policy. That was some lofty group of officers and bureaucrats in Beijing.

Time to move on.

"And what role does this fellow Morgan play in the free market?" he asked her.

She regarded him a long moment. "I can't believe you don't know him, or at least know of him."

"Humor me."

"He's been around awhile, at least since I've been out of uni. The bloke tries to sell himself as some sort of American government asset. I think he's just—well, like you said. He's an entrepreneur who's trying to capitalize on the existence of people like us."

"Like some sort of recruiter?"

"Yes, I think so. He's approached me, lord, I don't know how many times. There's always some sort of offer or promise or hook. I'd never have to buy another meal or pay for another vacation, if I didn't want."

"And you've never been tempted?"

"Absolutely not. There's rather a—what's the word—a snake oil salesman quality about him."

Something occurred to Tommy. "How does he identify potential recruits?"

"Ah!" she said. "I'm not certain. I think part of it is careful study, part is hit-and-miss. He or his agents sometimes approach people like us, sometimes random embassy or consulate people, trying to feel them out. And I can't imagine we're the only country that gets such treatment."

"So, he gets it wrong sometimes?"

"Oh, yes. But he identifies people like us with too much accuracy for it to be totally random. There has to be some sort of system. I'd lie if I said it wasn't possible that he was getting inside information from someone in our government. But, otherwise, I'm at a loss. Unless—."

"Unless?"

"He has someone like you working for him."

"It's possible. I'm not the only one so blessed."

"How do you do it? Pick us out like that?"

"I just look at someone and know. Morse could to it too. And I have a good friend who can tell most of the time." Another thing came to mind. "How was this chap Morgan connected to Morse?"

"I don't know," she replied. "And I don't really know anything about this company Hollirich and what it was doing, except they were operating outside the United States for some years before—well, I guess before you put an end to it. Your former vice president and her friends were causing a lot of concern among a lot of people with their activities."

"But the anxiety is gone now?" The young woman's last words, particularly those about her knowledge of Hollirich and its operations, were another thing she'd said that didn't ring as being perfectly candid. But he let it slide for the moment.

"Somewhat. But uncertainty is its own type of anxiety."

"Uncertainty about what might come next?"

"Yes."

"Some friends and I are still trying to sort out the uncertainty. How do I find this Morgan? And what's his proper name?"

She seemed to consider for a moment. "I can't tell you that."

"Can't or won't?'

"Both. He's one of those fellows who is good at hiding his tracks. If he wants to make contact, he usually sends someone. I've only had one direct and highly unpleasant encounter with him, and I wasn't able to get a photo."

"Description?"

"Caucasian, balding, blue eyes, sixtyish, about my height. Dresses well. I'm fairly certain he's an American." She seemed to consider a moment longer. "I don't know if he has any home base, but if I wanted to find him, I'd try Stuttgart or Madrid. Do something flashy in public. Someone will approach you."

All of her words seemed true and candid, and Tommy felt a certain anxiety lift. He'd go over the woman's words again later, with Sam, but it seemed to him that the few times that Bai Lin had come across as deceptive were easily explainable. Intelligence officers often were sensitive about sources and methods. No doubt, if she was holding back information, it was because she worried it might expose a source of information to danger.

Put simply, she didn't yet trust Tommy, at least not 100 percent. There was no faulting her for that.

But the woman had been honest and candid about several issues that put him at ease. He now was certain she knew of no plot to replicate or to reanimate the reckless and silly episode of 1991. Her presence in the United States was part of no grand and ominous plot. She was in the country doing normal, mundane intelligence collection.

Even more, the mirth she demonstrated at his mention of her taking a polygraph filled him with a sense of relief. This woman was no bureaucratic automaton. No doubt, she loved her country deeply. But he had an idea that she felt a sense of loyalty beyond her devotion to country. Simple human decency was a commodity as rare and as precious as gold, and he thought he detected the existence of that commodity in this woman. He might be wrong in his estimation—it wouldn't be the first time—but he thought not.

In any event, time would tell. Age had taught him caution. He would speak more with the Chinese agent, and he would check, double check, and triple check everything she told him. He would take nothing on faith, no matter how seductive it might sound.

A sense of warmth filled him as the two continued to talk. Mostly, that warmth was a sense of gratitude to his friend Sam Babington, who taught him an important lesson. People can solve their problems with simple talk. Not everything needed to end in a fight.