I was given a whole team: Eric Dana from the National Clandestine Service; two spit-shined analysts in their mid-twenties who never spoke a word the whole time I was there; and one familiar face, AI Tunney, from the Office of Transnational Issues.

    Tunney and I had worked together on a Russian mafia case a few years back. I hoped he would advocate for me here, but this was clearly Eric Dana's meeting, his case. We sat at a gleaming wood table with a view of nothing but green forests and lawns as far as I could see. Peaceful, serene, very misleading.

    “Detective Cross, why don't you tell us what you know so far?” Dana asked. “That would be helpful to get things going.” I didn't hold back, saw no reason to. I walked them through all three crime scenes-the Cox house, the street outside Masjid Al-Shura, and, finally, the landfill out in Lor ton.

    I also passed around a set of photos, keeping them chronological.

    Then I covered everything I'd learned or heard about gang leaders in Africa, including what I'd read in Ellie's book. Only then did I mention the CIA officers who had shown up at the first murder scene.

    “We won't comment on that,” said Dana. “Not at this point.”

    “I'm not looking for you to open your files to me,” I said to Dana. “But I'd like to know if you're tracking a killer stateside. And if you are, do you have any idea where he is?”

    Dana listened to what I had to say, then shoved a stack of papers back into a file and stood up.

    “Okay. Thank you, Detective Cross. This has been most helpful. We'll get back to you. Let us do our thing here for a few days.”

    It wasn't the response I wanted. “Hold on, what are you talking about? Get back to me now.”

    It was a bad moment. Dana stared at his analysts with a look that said, Didn't anyone brief this guy?

    Then he looked back at me, not impolitely. “I think I understand your urgency, Detect-”