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been “Killer” when he joined the agency fifteen years before. People who met him back then weren’t sure whether he had acquired the name because he had actually killed someone, or because he was so ambitious. He had tried to tone down his tough-guy image when he moved to Los Angeles, and had even sought the advice of a wardrobe consultant at a clothier on Rodeo Drive. That was characteristic of Gertz. He studied everything. He wanted to get it right.
    Today Gertz was dressed in a royal-blue blazer, a blue so bright it reminded you of a Caribbean cruise, with an open-neck black shirt and a pair of light charcoal slacks. He looked like one of the thousands of people in West Los Angeles who prospered through some connection with what was called “the industry.” When he gave people his card that said “The Hit Parade: Entertainment Is Our Business,” it was almost believable.
    When Gertz reached Ventura Boulevard, he turned right at the Ralphs Supermarket. A few shoppers were plodding toward the door. They looked like they hadn’t slept all night. He put in a new cassette. The Allies were on their way to Kasserine Pass.

    Sophie Marx was at the office when the news came in from Karachi. She had been at home, trying to get some rest, calling the operations room every few hours to check on Howard Egan’s progress. The watch officer called her when they got the message about the meeting being moved up a day. After that, she couldn’t sleep, so she had come on back. It wasn’t a premonition, exactly, but she knew how worried Egan had been about the trip. She had told him everything would be fine, but in the middle of the night, in her bed in Sherman Oaks, she had remembered what it felt like to be alone in a city where people would kill you, for a certainty, if they knew who you were. That was when she decided to come in.
    “Call Gertz,” she said when it was clear that something had happened. The watch officer tried his cell, but by then he was at the dentist’s. It wasn’t anybody’s fault, but this was a day when things went wrong.
    Marx waited for the boss with other senior officers who had gathered outside his office on the fifth floor. She was the most junior member of this group. It was only a week before that Gertz had asked her to run counterintelligence for the little organization. The senior staff wasn’t a talky group, even on a good day. They had all spent too many years keeping their mouths shut. The head of Support, a man named Tommy Arden, asked if there was any news yet from the “Death Star,” by which he meant Headquarters. Several people answered no.

    Gertz emerged from the elevator with his usual fixed smile, but it vanished in an instant. The watch officer was waiting for him, hovering awkwardly by the elevator door. His name was Julian and he wore an earring. The operations chief, Steve Rossetti, was lurking a little farther on, with the nervous eye of a man who didn’t want to be blamed, along with Arden, the head of Support. Marx wasn’t in the inner circle; she stood farther off. But she was Egan’s contact, so in a sense it was her problem.
    “What’s going on?” Gertz asked. “This looks like a suicide watch.”
    “It’s Howard Egan,” said the watch officer.
    “What about him? He’s in Karachi.”
    “He’s gone missing. He was supposed to be at a meeting nearly an hour ago, but we can’t find him.”
    “What are you talking about? That meet is tomorrow. Isn’t that right, Steve?”
    He turned to the operations chief, who was older than Gertz by about ten years and whose body was as lumpy as Gertz’s was fit. He had been in the ops job three months. The rumor was that he had been sent by Langley to keep an eye on Gertz.
    “Change of plans, apparently. Sophie’s read the traffic.” He turned to Marx.
    She stepped forward, toward the boss. She was trying not to think that this was her fault.
    “The asset wanted to change the meeting time,” she said. “Egan