Edge

He genuinely believes in law and order. And warrantless surveillance is a crime.”
    As was, of course, forging warrants.
    I remembered my dismay when I read what I’d learned about Stevenson and realized he was the worst possible enemy: a powerful man with a deeply held conviction that he was in the right. Especially when the person he was targeting, me, was so clearly wrong.
    I’d felt dismay too at the fact that I’d found myself searching for a scandal or impropriety in Stevenson’s life, anything I could use to discourage him from subpoenaing me—no, I’m not above using an edge like that myself. But there’d been nothing. He liked dating younger women, but he was single, so there was no problem there. His campaigns were largely funded by one of the biggest conservative political action committees in Washington. But all politicians’ campaigns were backed by PACs; his just happened to be more flush than many others. Even his aide, Sandy Alberts, had been meticulous about severing all ties to all lobbying firms before coming to work for Stevenson.
    No edge to threaten him with.
    And there was nothing I could offer him to make him forget about me. I was exactly what he wantedto expose: an agent of the government working for a shadowy organization and playing fast and loose with the laws of the country.
    “Where did Stevenson leave it?” I asked.
    “He wants to know about cases you’ve run in the past few years, where perps went to trial.”
    To find out if any lifters or hitters I helped arrest were convicted on the basis of illegal taps. I told my boss, “It was only Loving. There weren’t any others.”
    “Apparently that won’t matter to him.”
    No, it wouldn’t. A single incident of a crime is still a crime.
    Aaron said, “You know if I don’t deliver case files, he’ll subpoena them. And he’s going to get you on the stand in the hearings.”
    Which would be the end of my career as a shepherd.
    And perhaps the start of a very embarrassing trial, which would possibly end in a prison sentence.
    “We’re so close to Loving,” I said, sitting forward tensely in the chair. “Please. Do the best you can to keep Stevenson—”
    My boss, normally as calm as I was, now snapped, “I’m doing a lot of fucking interference-running for you on this job, Corte.”
    “I know. I’ll cooperate with Stevenson completely—when Loving’s in the can. I’ll take whatever the consequences are.”
    “You know this has put the whole organization in a real awkward position. We can’t afford to be public, Corte.”
    “I know, yes.”
    “I’ll stall for a day or two, if I can. But if the subpoena’s delivered, there’s nothing I can do.”
    “I understand. Thanks, Aaron.”
    I hung up and sat back, rubbing my eyes, feeling utterly depleted. What could I salvage from this mess? Even if I avoided jail, it seemed my career as a shepherd was soon to be over. I couldn’t help but think about some of the assignments I’d run, about some of my principals.
    About Claire duBois.
    About Abe Fallow too.
    But then I recalled that, whatever happened in the future, the Kessler job wasn’t finished yet. We still had Loving and the partner to nail. And we still had a case to make against the primary—and I’d make damn sure that it was completely buttoned up, independent of any bogus warrants.
    I found the transcript of Aslan Zagaev’s statement, opened it and began to read.
    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