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her strong opinions, laughed often, and, at once playful and feisty, she reminded me of the actress Ruth Gordon.
    “I take it, then, that the sedentary life suits you well?”
    “I like the sedateness of my life with Molly. I look forward to having a family. But being an attorney in Boston isn’t the most exciting way to earn a living.” He smiled, took a sip of port, and said, “You’ve had enough excitement for several lifetimes.” Moore knew about my past, about what the Agency disciplinary board termed my “recklessness” in the field.
    “That’s one way to put it”
    “Yes,” he agreed, “you were something of a hothead. But you were young.
    And you were a good agent, which is the main thing. God, you were fearless. We were afraid we’d have to rein you in. Is it true you put a Camp instructor out of commission?”
    I shrugged. It was true: during my training at the CIA’s Camp Peary, a martial arts instructor had scissored me in a choke hold in front of my fellow students and proceeded to taunt me, goad me. And suddenly I was overcome by a slow, cold wave of anger. It was as if some corrosive fluid had seeped into my abdomen, then flooded the rest of my body, giving me a glacial composure. Some ancient portion of my hindbrain seemed to take over; I was a primitive, ferocious animal. I reached out with the heel of my right hand and slammed his face, breaking his jaw.
    The incident immediately passed into Camp lore, told and retold, embellished and embroidered over drinks late at night. From then on I was regarded warily, like a hand grenade with the pin out. It was a reputation that served me well in the field, and it caused me to be selected for assignments that were deemed too risky for the others. But it was at the same time a trait that sickened me; it warred with my sober, analytical side; it simply wasn’t who I was.
    Moore crossed his legs and sat back. “So tell me why you’re here. I assume it’s nothing we could have discussed over the telephone.”
    Not, certainly, without a secure phone, I thought; the Agency takes those privileges away from you upon retirement, even from such an institution as Edmund Moore.
    “Tell me about Alexander Truslow,” I said.
    “Ah,” he said, and arched his brows. “You’re doing some work for him, I take it.”
    “Considering it. The truth is, Ed, I’m in a bit of financial trouble.”
    “Ah.”
    “You might have heard about a small firm in Boston called First Commonwealth.”
    “I think so. Drug money or something?”
    “It’s been shut down. Along with all my liquid assets.”
    “I’m terribly sorry.”
    “So suddenly Truslow Associates is looking quite a bit more appealing to me. Molly and I could use the money.”
    “But isn’t your specialty intellectual property, or patents, or whatever it’s called?”
    “That’s right.” “I’d have thought Alex would require the services of someone—” He paused for a moment to sip his port, and I put in, “Someone more adept at hiding money in international bolt holes.”
    Moore gave a faint smile, and nodded. “Yet perhaps you’re just what he needs. You did have a reputation as one of the finest, most highly skilled operatives in the field—”
    “A loose cannon, Ed, and you know it.”
    A “loose cannon” was, I imagine, just one of many labels given me by my colleagues and superiors in the Agency. I was regarded with fear, wonder, and a good deal of puzzlement. It was the fieldwork, the exposure to danger and the threat of violence, that would bring out my dark side. Some considered me fearless, which wasn’t true. Others considered me reckless, which was closer to the truth.
    The fact was that at certain times, a ruthless and frightening Ben Ellison would take over. It was something that, once I was aware of it, deeply unsettled me, and eventually led to my leaving the Agency.
    Before Paris I was detailed to Leipzig to get my feet wet. My cover was as a trade official. One of my