TOP SECRET EYES ONLY UNDERCOVER OPERATIVE PROFILE DESIGNATION: A14-Z11 NSA CODE: AQUA

There were also a lot more pictures inside.

Pictures of Otto Krieg in a marine uniform. In a camouflage outfit. In a photo captioned BOSNIA—1998. In a group shot, next to a smiling Agent Weeks. Huddled in a restaurant booth with Micky Duka and Yuri Astrov.

“That’s him?” Livia whispered, leaning across his shoulder.

Howard Saint nodded. “That’s him.”

Quentin Glass leaned in through the window.

“His name is Frank Castle. Senior agent, just got the bureau’s London desk. The name, connections, apartments in Europe—none of it was real. Not even his death.”

Saint was skimming through the memo outlining that particular phase of the operation even as Quentin spoke. He saw the shoot-out between Weeks and “Krieg” had been Castle’s idea—the agent had apparently been worried about two of Astrov’s men, who were supposed to be a little trigger-happy. Castle had thought the sight of blood, blood belonging to one of their own, would make persuading them to lay down their arms easier.

There it was in black and white, then. Any way you looked at it . . . Castle was responsible for what had happened to Bobby.

“It wasn’t real. The shoot-out?” John asked.

“Maybe it was. Maybe he came back from the dead just to die again.” Saint looked up at Quentin. “Where is he now?”

“You have your chance. He’s leaving for England next week, but at this moment . . . he’s at a family reunion in Puerto Rico.”

“You should be there. So you can tell Livia how he died.” Glass nodded, and pulled back from the limo.

“Wait.”

Livia leaned forward in her seat.

“The family.”

Quentin Glass blinked, as if he hadn’t heard her right.

“Livia?”

“The family,” she said again, and then lifted her veil.

Her makeup had run. Her eyes were bloodshot and filled with tears. Saint squeezed her hand. “His whole family, Quentin.”

Glass’s eyes went to Saint, who considered his wife’s request.

The whole family. There would be a major, major stink. They couldn’t afford it now. The whole FBI thing, the governor’s race, business . . .

Then he considered the grave he’d just come from, the look on his wife’s face, the endless hours of pain that lay before them, and, most of all, the effrontery of the fuckin’ FBI, staging a play that cost his son’s life, and nodded.

“Do it,” he said to Quentin. “The whole family.”

Glass set his jaw, and went to his car.