“What now?”

She explained. Cota was less than supportive. Much less. “I’m hearing this right, you want to lose this guy because you didn’t like the way he skied. Because he skied too well?”

“I’m telling you I’ve never had a feeling like this before.”

“And that’s good. I never pegged you as paranoid, Marci. You think those boys found this guy in Amman, convinced him to infiltrate us. And don’t forget the Jordies are on board, they think he’s a hundred percent copacetic.”

“I’m just saying—”

“And I’m saying we’re going to see what he gives us. You don’t want to be involved, okay. But this is happening. And if it happens without you, it won’t be good for you. Or Pete either.”

Pete was Peter S. Lautner, her husband, another case officer. They’d met five years before in Kabul, been together ever since. Like her, he was a rising star, just promoted to become the agency’s top liaison with the Afghan muk.

“You can’t put this on Pete.”

“It is what it is. Your career, his career, all tied up.”

Giving her something else to worry about. “Can I tell you something? You are a grade-A prick.” She tried to make her tone lighter than the words. She failed.

“Sticks and stones, Marci. I take it I have your cooperation.”

“As always.”

SHE TALKED the situation over with her husband that night, as they ate at the rough-hewn wooden table in their kitchen. Junior CIA officers lived in the Ariana Hotel. Even with wifi and a twenty-four-hour cafeteria, the hotel was depressing, its rooms low and dark, shadowed by tinted blastproof windows. More senior officers were assigned to homes in the walled zone around the hotel. Holm and Lautner had a two-bedroom brick house a block from the Ariana. Holm thought she might even miss it when they left.

She swirled a glass of the red wine she’d bought the day before in the Dubai airport, a thousand light-years away. “What do you think?”