From underneath his coat, DeVries produced an address book that might have been procured in any dime store, bound in imitation leather.

"So?"

DeVries looked pained.

"So, buddy, this is just his trick book here, that's all. It's full of names and places, dates. Amounts."

"You're saying you've got evidence of payoffs?"

"Hey, what can I tell you, Leo? Some jerks like to write it down. It's like the Nixon syndrome, eh? That Watergate fiasco might have had a happy ending if he hadn't got a tape recorder for his birthday."

When he laughed out loud, DeVries reminded Turrin of a braying jackass. Wincing, Leo forced a grin and waited for the moment of hilarity to pass.

"So what's the deal?" he asked when he could get a word in edgewise. "Is the guy already out, or what?"

DeVries dismissed the question with a shrug.

"Nobody's briefed me on the disposition yet. They'll have to wade through all this shit before they file, I guess, but if the bastard owed me money, I'd collect it while I could."

The braying laugh, abrading Leo's nerves like fingernails across a blackboard, was suddenly cut short as Hal Brognola crossed the threshold.

"Hey, I'll catch you later," DeVries mumbled, steering wide around Brognola, eyes averted as he navigated toward the door.

They stood alone in the reception room, deserted by the vultures now, communicating silently with eyes that never wavered. It was Hal who broke the ice a moment later.

"Perfect timing."

"Hal..."

Brognola raised a hand to silence him.

"In here," he said and nodded toward the inner office. Leo followed on his heels and closed the door behind himself.

"We might not be alone," Brognola told him simply, stooping to check beneath his desk, the swivel chair. There was no way to search a modern office thoroughly with naked eyes and empty hands, but they spent twenty minutes going through the basics, checking furniture and fixtures, lifting artwork off the walls and rummaging through drawers.