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“The director argues that we should do nothing and wait. The Soviets will eventually release her. They aren’t stupid.”

“And you agree?”

“Yes, actually. I do.”

“You make an unlikely couple, you and Hinkle. I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I think he’s a fool. But in this case, it’s irrelevant.”

Margaret looked at Stone, tight and controlled as ever. Hers was not the look of a colleague, or even a friend, but something more intimate and poignant. But Stone did not return it. He was looking at the floor, waiting for her to be done. Margaret turned and gazed at the fire, now flickering into coals, soon to be exhausted and barren of heat and light. There really was nothing more to say to Stone. She rose and retrieved her fur coat, and spoke only when she had reached the door.

“You really are a great disappointment to me, Edward,” she said quietly. And she was gone.

Margaret Houghton made an appointment the next Monday to see the director. He was away that week, and the next week he was busy, and his secretary finally confided that Margaret was wasting her time, because the director didn’t want to see her. Margaret went to call on him anyway, taking the elevator to the seventh floor, smiling and waving to the few friends she had left in the front office, flashing her badge at the others. She made it to the secretarial cordon sanitaire outside the director’s office before she was stopped.

“I’d like to see Mr. Hinkle,” she said.

“He’s in conference, Miss Houghton,” said the head secretary.

“I’ll wait.”

“It may take a long time.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve brought some paperwork.”

“I’m afraid you can’t do that. It’s not allowed.”

“Oh yes, I can,” said Margaret. “You’re going to have to have the guards come and remove me physically, which will be quite embarrassing for the director. But I’m not leaving until I’ve seen him.”

Margaret looked so determined, and so perfectly confident of herself, that the secretary thought it best to reconsider. “Hold on,” she said. She picked up the phone, buzzed Hinkle, and said in a muffled, apologetic voice that a Miss Houghton was waiting outside and wouldn’t leave without seeing him. Anna heard Hinkle’s unlikely curse through the phone.

“Fuck a duck!” he said. But fifteen seconds later the big door opened and a square-jawed, round-eyed man emerged. He had his suit jacket buttoned, even in his own office.

“I’ll give you five minutes,” said Hinkle, looking at his watch.

“I’ve come to see you about Anna Barnes,” said Margaret when the door was closed.

“What about Anna Barnes?”

“What are you doing to get her out?”

“All of the usual procedures.”

“What are they?”

“I can’t talk about it. This case is very sensitive. You’re not cleared for it. It’s none of your concern.”

“Mr. Hinkle, I have known Anna since she was a girl. I encouraged her to join the agency. I’m very concerned about her situation. I don’t think we’re doing enough to get her out.”

“You’re out of order.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said you’re out of order. This organization has rules, and you’ve violated them by coming to see me. The Barnes case is being handled by authorized people. You must leave it to them, and to me. That’s all I have to say on the subject.” He looked at his watch. “Your five minutes are almost up.”

“Director,” said Margaret. “I should warn you. I’m going to pursue this. If you won’t listen to me, I’ll find someone who will. As you know, I have that right under Executive Order 12333.”

“What right?”

“Look it up in the rule book. The section on congressional oversight.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

“Fat chance!” he said, which struck Margaret as an inappropriate response under the circumstances, but somehow typical of Hinkle.

Margaret waited a few days to see if her threat accomplished anything. In truth, she felt uncomfortable with the idea of going to a member of Congress. It seemed like ratting to the teacher. But when the grapevine reported no movement on the Barnes case, she concluded that Hinkle must have thought she was bluffing. So she reluctantly made an appointment to see the chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee, whom, as luck had it, she had met at a wedding in East Hampton the previous summer. He agreed to see her the next evening in his office at six-thirty, and when she arrived, he had already poured himself a tall glass of whiskey. Perhaps he had remembered her from East Hampton as a younger woman.

She began summarizing the details of the case, shyly at first, for she was unaccustomed to discussing such things with anyone outside the charmed circle. She explained that a young woman case officer—a constituent of the senator’s, as it happened—was in prison in the Soviet Union because of blunders made by agency officials back home. The senator nodded. He seemed to know the vague outlines of the case, but no more.

“I thought Hinkle was handling all that,” he said.

“No. He’s not doing anything.”

“Why not?”

“Because the case is a can of worms, and he doesn’t want to open it.”

“What’s inside?” asked the senator with a sly look. Like so many of his colleagues, he harbored the secret conviction that he—not the incumbent—should rightfully occupy the White House, and therefore took special pleasure in making life difficult for the executive branch.

Margaret told him the story, every sordid detail, as she had pieced it together. She spun the tale of Stone’s plotting so artfully that by the end the senator believed he had glimpsed the outline of a conspiracy at the very heart of the CIA, one that had cruelly manipulated a young woman—a constituent!—and left her to rot in a Moscow prison.

“Promise me one thing,” said Margaret when she was done. “You must conduct your investigation in secret, within the Intelligence Committee. If you go public, Anna will never get out.”

The senator, chivalrous and courtly and very drunk, put one hand on his heart and the other on Margaret’s shoulder and promised that he would not