The Big Bad Wolf

Burns wanted me on White Girl, he’d get word to me. If not, then fine.
    That morning the class centered on what the Bureau called a “practical application exercise.” We had to investigate a fictitious bank robbery in Hogans Alley, including interviews with witnesses and tellers. The instructor was another very competent SSA named Marilyn May.
    About half an hour into the exercise, Agent May notified the class of a fictitious automobile accident about a mile from the bank. We proceeded as a group to investigate the accident, and to see if it had any connection to the bank robbery. I was being conscientious, but I’d been involved in actual investigations like this for the past dozen years, and it was hard for me to take it too seriously, especially since some of my classmates conducted interviews according to the instructional manual. I thought maybe they’d watched cop shows on television too often. Agent May seemed amused at times herself.
    As I stood around the accident scene with a new buddy who had been a captain in the army before going into the Bureau, I heard my name spoken. I turned to see Nooney’s administrative assistant. “Senior Agent Nooney wants to see you in his office,” he said.
    Oh, Christ, what now? This guy is nuts!
I was thinking as I walked quickly to Administration. I hurried upstairs to where Nooney was waiting.
    “Shut the door, please,” he said. He was seated behind a scarred oak desk, looking as if someone close to him had died.
    I was getting hot under the collar. “I’m in the middle of an exercise.”
    “I know what you’re doing. I wrote the program and the schedule,” he said. “I want to talk to you about the front page of today’s
Washington Post,
” he went on. “You see it?”
    “I saw it.”
    “I spoke to your former chief of detectives this morning. He told me that you’ve used the
Post
before. He said you have friends there.”
    I tried hard not to roll my eyes. “I used to have a good friend at the
Post.
He was murdered. I don’t have friends there anymore. Why would I leak information about the abductions? What would I gain?”
    Nooney pointed a rigid finger my way. He raised his voice. “I know how you work. And I know what you’re after—you don’t want to be part of a team. Or to be controlled or influenced in any way. Well, it’s not going to happen that way. We don’t believe in golden boys or special situations. We don’t think that you’re more imaginative or creative than anyone else in your class. So get back to your exercise, Dr. Cross. And wise up.”
    Without saying another word, I left the office, fuming. I returned to the fake accident scene which Agent Marilyn May soon neatly connected to the fake robbery that had been staged in Hogans Alley. Some program that Nooney had written. I could have done a better one in my sleep. And yeah, now I was mad. I just didn’t know who I was supposed to be mad at. I didn’t know how to play this game.
    But I wanted to win.

Chapter 29
    ANOTHER PURCHASE HAD BEEN MADE—a large one.
    On Saturday night, the Couple had entered a bar called the Halyard, on the water in Newport, Rhode Island. The Halyard was different from most of the gay clubs in Newport’s so-called Pink District. There was the occasional glimpse of a bad-ass boot or spike-studded wristband, but most of the men who frequented the place sported tousled hairdos and boating dress, and the ever-popular Croakie sunglasses.
    The deejay had just selected a Strokes tune, and several couples were dancing the night away. The Couple fit in, which is to say that they didn’t stand out. Slava wore a baby blue T-shirt and Dockers, and had gelled his longish black hair. Zoya had on a raffish sailing cap and had made herself up to look like a pretty young man. She had succeeded beyond her own expectations, for she had already been hit on.
    She and Slava were looking for a certain physical type, and they had found a promising prospect soon after they arrived. His name, they would learn later, was Benjamin Coffey, and he was a senior at Providence College. Benjamin had first become aware that he was gay while serving as an altar boy at St. Thomas’ in Barrington, Rhode Island. No priest had ever touched or abused him while he was there, or even come on to him, but he had discovered a like-minded altar server, and they became lovers when they were both fourteen. The two had continued to meet through high school, but then Benjamin had moved