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chrome. His tie appears to be alligator skin.

    He strides over to us, his movements oddly deliberate but not jerky; he reminds me more of someone performing a dance about walking than someone actually doing so. He stops in front of our table and looks at me. At least, I think that’s what he’s doing; he doesn’t seem to have actual irises or pupils, just eye-shaped indentations. It’s like looking at a mask, one with strong, angular features: square chin, heavy brow, Roman nose with a pronounced hump to it.

    “Jace Valchek?” he asks. His voice is deep and raspy, sandpaper scraping the bottom of a metal barrel. He holds his hands loosely at his sides, and I note that the skin on them is just as black as his face. He doesn’t have fingernails.

    “Who’s asking?” I say.

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    “I’m Charlie Aleph. I’m here to escort you to see the Director.” Just like Cassius, I can’t quite place his accent—Arabic? German? Something with harsh gutturals, anyway—but the coiled tension in his voice is as obvious as a stretched bowstring, while his body language is completely relaxed. The only people I’ve ever seen able to pull off that combination effectively were lifelong politicians or trained assassins.

    I can’t tell how much of the wariness I feel is natural caution and how much I’m picking up from him. “Yeah, fine. Do I get to actually see the outside world now, or are we traveling in a hermetically sealed armored car?”

    “We’ll be driving,” Charlie Aleph says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

    I toy with the idea of having another cup of coffee and making him wait, but that’s a game I’d probably lose; never try the patience of someone whose family tree includes marble and granite. I get to my feet. “Okay, let’s go. Dr. Pete, thanks for the tea.”

    “Call me if you have any problems,” he says, and I get the feeling he’s talking about more than just symptoms.

    “Sure,” I say. I wonder if they’ll give me a phone.

    Charlie leads me out of the cafeteria and down the corridor to an elevator. His body makes these soft crunching noises as he walks, like he’s stepping on fresh snow.

    “So,” I say as we stop at the elevator. “What’s my status? Am I a prisoner or a cop?”

    “Neither. You’re a consultant of a nonrecognized foreign government, granted Special Agent status for the duration of the case.” He doesn’t look at me while he talks, which is good. Those eyeless eyes aren’t exactly comforting.

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    “Bureaucratic doublespeak meaning that while I work for you, I don’t have any special legal standing. No Diplomatic Immunity, for instance.”

    “No.”

    The elevator arrives and we get on. I almost expect it to creak under his weight, but that doesn’t happen.

    “What happens if I try to run?” I ask as the doors close.

    “I’ll stop you.”

    “You don’t look too quick.”

    “You’d be surprised.”

    “I hate surprises.”

    “Then don’t run.”

    The doors open. We’re in the lobby of an office building, not a hospital; I guess that was Dr. Pete’s private practice, or maybe just a facility the NSA reserves for special cases like me. I see a few other people, but nobody out of the ordinary—a paunchy guy in a business suit, a middle-aged woman in a long beige coat. The front wall of the lobby is all glass, and it looks like a gray, overcast day outside. My own internal clock tells me it’s early morning, but for all I know the sun’s about to go down.

    Okay, Scary New World—here I come.

    Out the door. Charlie Aleph heads straight for a dark blue Crown Vic parked at the curb. I stop, take a deep breath of air, look around.
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    The first impression I get is utterly mundane. City street, lots of buildings, businesses, cars. People walking down the sidewalk, driving past in Toyotas, Fords,