He went into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. The kitchen clock read 4:15. He hesitated a moment, then dialled a number. There were six rings, and finally he heard Admiral Whittaker’s voice at the other end of the line. “Hello.”

“Admiral …”

“Yes?”

“It’s Robert. I’m terribly sorry to wake you, sir. I just had a rather strange phone call from the National Security Agency.”

“NSA? What did they want?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been ordered to report to General Hilliard at 0600.”

There was a thoughtful silence. “Perhaps you’re being transferred there.”

“I can’t be. It doesn’t make sense. Why would they …?”

“It’s obviously something urgent, Robert. Why don’t you give me a call after the meeting?”

“I will. Thank you.”

The connection was broken. I shouldn’t have bothered the old man, Robert thought. The Admiral had retired as head of Naval Intelligence two years earlier. Forced to retire, was more like it. The rumour was that, as a sop, the Navy had given him a little office somewhere and put him to work counting barnacles on the mothball fleet, or some such shit. The Admiral would have no idea about current intelligence activities. But he was Robert’s mentor. He was closer to Robert than anyone in the world, except, of course, Susan. And Robert had needed to talk to someone. With Susan gone, he felt as though he were living in a time warp. He fantasized that somewhere, in another dimension of time and space, he and Susan were still happily married, laughing and carefree and loving. Or maybe not, Robert thought, wearily. Maybe I just don’t know when to let go.