Edge

his impressive mustache. Though arguably the most liberal of the tsars, the emancipator of the serfs, he was assassinated by revolutionaries.
    “All right, yes. All right.” He slumped.
    I sat in my original chair and Bert returned to hers.
    Our organization didn’t torture to get information. Not even water boarding. We made this decision for two reasons. First, it was illegal—this is a country of laws, after all. Second, we’d studied the subject and found it largely inefficient, since processing all the information you got from a tortured prisoner and reassembling it into the truth generally took much longer than using softer methods of interrogation. Even then torture tends to work with only a small number of subjects.
    Nor was Bert Santoro our resident grand inquisitor. She was the office manager of our headquarters in Old Town, the woman who reviewed expense accounts and budgets and ordered furniture and computers. She had nothing to do with operations. With four wonderful kids and a great husband, Bert was like any one of thousands of government workers in the D.C. area. But she had a cold beauty that made her perfect to play the steely operative role, someone who enjoyed pulling out fingernailsor using electrodes to extract information from my interogatees.
    Zagaev whispered to me, “Who is she?” He turned to her. “Why don’t you say anything?”
    Bert, probably thinking about something like my overdue expense account, silenced him with a look.
    I said, “Aslan?”
    With a last glance at the red vinyl case, which I knew happened to contain only makeup, he sighed and I heard chain tinkle as he lowered his shoulders and hands. “Naturally you thought I was part of some plot, some terrible plan to bring down the infidels. What nonsense! No, no, my plan was about business. You see how much of an American I have become? That’s what I care about. The all-powerful dollar.”
    He seemed concerned that my notebook was closed. “Please, this is my story. Please, you can write it down.”
    Every syllable was, of course, being recorded by a hidden video and audio system—the Sony video by the door was more of a dramatic prop. Still, I thought it best not to remind him he was being taped surreptitiously and so I opened my notebook.
    “Years ago, yes, I knew the couple who worked in the deli, the couple murdered . . . the couple who died. I did not respect them. I had no interest in their cause. But I did have an interest in the money they paid me. Which was not inconsiderable. You have seen the record, yes? You know. After they died, I grieved—but only for the loss of the income.
    “I led a more or less successful life here. Ah, but isn’t success a moving target? I have been having some problems, financial in nature. The economy?Who needs rugs when you can’t afford your mortgage payments? Who goes to eat at my wonderful restaurant when you must buy bulk frozen dinners at Sam’s Club to feed your children? How could I make more money? Did I have any service I could perform? Did I have anything valuable that I could sell? Then it occurred to me. What if I could learn more about the operation behind the deaths of the Pakistanis in the deli six years ago? How valuable would that be? I remembered the woman who was the point control officer behind the operation to kill them: Joanne Kessler. Even if she had retired she would surely have valuable information or lead me to people who did.
    “I made some phone calls, discreet phone calls, to a connection of mine in Damascus. I learned there was indeed an interest in information of this sort. A multimillion-dollar interest. A man there gave me Henry Loving’s name.”
    So that was the answer. I’d anticipated part of it—targeting Joanne because of information she’d have about secret government organizations. I had posited a terrorist motive and sleeper cell; in fact, it was just business. Given Zagaev’s entrepreneurial life, I should have guessed.
    “What’re you paying Loving?”
    “One million dollars, half up front. Half when we got good information from Joanne.”
    “If you cancel the job?”
    “I still must pay everything.”
    I asked, “Where is Loving now?”
    “I don’t know, I swear to God, praise be to Him. I’ve met Loving once—last week in West Virginia.”
    “Why there?”
    Zagaev shrugged. “Out of the way. He was afraid he’d be recognized if he flew into Dulles.”
    “Go on.”
    “I gave him a deposit. He