the wall above the shabby distressed bar. Several hunched-over, dishevelled, bleary-eyed patrons confirmed the status of the establishment. Both squinting in the receding dim wash of light, Kendrick and Swann moved towards the darker regions to the right of the bar; they found a frayed booth and slid in opposite each other.
'You really insist we talk?' asked the grey-haired Swann, breathing deeply, his face flushed and still perspiring.
'I insist to the point of making you the newest candidate for the morgue.'
'Watch it, I'm a black belt.'
'In what?'
Swann frowned. 'I was never quite sure, but it always works in the movies when they show us doing our thing. I need a drink.'
'You signal a waiter,' said Kendrick. 'I'll stay in the shadows.'
'Shadows?' questioned Swann, raising his hand cautiously for a heavy black waitress with flaming red hair. 'Where's any light in here?'
'When did you last do three push-ups in succession, Mr. Karate Kid?'
'Sometime in the sixties. Early, I think.'
'That's when they replaced the light bulbs in this place… Now about me. How the hell could you, you liar?'
'How the hell could you think I would?' cried the man from State, suddenly silent as the grotesque waitress stood by the table, arms akimbo. 'What'll you have?' he asked Evan.
'Nothing.'
'That's not nice here. Or healthy, I suspect. Two ryes, double, thank you. Canadian, if you have it.'
'Forget it,' said the waitress.
'Forgotten,' agreed Swann as the waitress left, his eyes again on Kendrick. 'You're funny, Mr. Congressman, I mean really hilarious. Consular Operations wants my head! The Secretary of State has put out a directive that makes it clear he doesn't know who I am, that vacillating, academic fleabag! And the Israelis are screaming because they think their precious Mossad may be compromised by anyone digging, and the Arabs on our payroll are bitching because they're not getting any credit! And at three-thirty this afternoon the President—the goddamned President—is chewing me out for “dereliction of duty”. Let me tell you, he intoned that phrase just like he knew what the hell he was talking about, which meant I knew there were at least two other people on the line… You're running? I'm running! Damn near thirty years in this dumb business—’
'That's what I called it,' interrupted Evan quickly, quietly. 'Sorry.'
'You should be,' said Swann without missing a beat. 'Because who's going to do this shit except us bastards dumber than the system? You need us, Charlie, and don't you forget it. The problem is we don't have much to show for it. I mean I don't have to rush home to make sure the pool in my backyard has been treated for algae because of the heat… Mainly because I don't have a pool, and my wife got the house in the divorce settlement because she was sick and tired of my going out for a loaf of bread and coming back three months later with the dirt of Afghanistan still in my ears! Oh, no, Mr. Undercover Congressman, I didn't blow the whistle on you. Instead, I did my best to stop the blowing. I haven't got much left, but I want to stay clean, and get out with what I can.'
'You tried to stop the blowing? The whistle?'
'Low key, very offhand, very professional. I even showed him a copy of the memo I sent upstairs rejecting you.'
'Him?'
Swann looked forlornly at Kendrick as the waitress brought their drinks and stood there, tapping the tabletop, while the man from State reached into his pocket, glanced at the bill, and paid it. The woman shrugged at the tip and walked away.
'Him?' repeated Evan.
'Go ahead,' said Swann, his voice flat, drinking a large portion of his whisky. 'Drive another nail in, what difference does it make? There's not that much blood left.'
'I assume that means you don't know who he is. Who him
