12

AUGUST WAS SITTING ON THE STOOP at my apartment building when I got home.

“I’m in trouble,” I said. “Are you?” I sounded like a fifth grader caught skipping school.

He looked out onto the street like he was back home surveying the windswept plains. “From what I heard, it didn’t happen.”

“Howell is, if nothing else, consistent.”

“I think you’re lucky you’re not dead. You owe Howell big-time.”

“I am never going to be in that man’s debt.”

“Plus, I didn’t know what you were up to,” he said with a shrug. “Can I have a beer?”

“You could have gotten a beer at the bar.”

“I’m tired of hearing Ollie’s opinions,” August said.

“Sure.” We walked up to my apartment. It was bare, furnished only with the secondhand stuff the Company had bought before I moved in. I opened the fridge and handed him a cold Heineken.

“You can’t run, Sam,” he said, popping the little keg-shaped can.

“You should have told me that this morning,” I said.

“Your stunt set off a wildfire here. Some people wanted you put back into jail. Others took it as a clear sign that you were dirty. Howell fought for you. I thought you should know. You have one other friend than me, and that’s Howell.”

“What is Novem Soles? Howell asked me about it. It connects to Lucy somehow and the London bombing.”

“Never heard of it. And you shouldn’t be asking questions. Not today, when you’re lucky to be out of a noose.”

“Maybe this is the group that has her. I want you to see what you can find about it. Please.”

“You know I can’t share any classified stuff with you.”

“Then why are you here, August? A free beer?”

His cheeks reddened. “I am here to give you a warning,” he said. “You’re a horrible embarrassment, Sam. The cover-up that was involved in London to keep from the press that it was a CIA front that was bombed was enormous. Nearly two dozen people dead; we’re lucky it wasn’t worse. The British are furious and they’d just as soon kill you if you set foot back on their soil. And for the few that think you might be telling the truth, no one’s taking a bullet for you. I’m telling you, watch your back. Higher-ups who normally get their way have argued for you to be terminated. A hungry soul’s bound to pick up on the sentiment and will figure they might get a promotion if you conveniently disappear or die, Howell using you as bait and Howell’s defense of you be damned.”

“Has the order been issued?”

“It won’t be an order. Nothing written. Just a wish made and a wish granted. Like King Henry talking about Thomas Becket: ‘Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?’ ” He finished his beer. “Watch your back, turbulent.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He pulled two phones out of his pocket, handed one to me. “Here. Only you have this number. If someone comes after you—call me. I’ll help you.”

My only friend. I didn’t want him to see the heavy swallow in my throat. “Thank you, August.”

I watched him leave, and then I went to bed. I think best in bed. I cleared my mind by paging through the thick bar book Ollie had loaned me. Every success in life was like a cocktail: a careful blending of elements in exact proportions, done in correct order.

I put the bar book down and I lay watching the ceiling, hatching a plan.