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it is. No problem. You got any preference, Hank? Blondes, brunettes? I’m just joking. You look like a family man. I’m just pulling your leg.”
    “How are they paid?”
    “Cash at the end of the night. And a few favors. I can keep them out of trouble. The protection is what instills loyalty. It’ll keep them quiet. You look a little queasy, Hank. You sure you don’t want something to eat?” Dorn produced a pen and a small black datebook from his breast pocket. He touched the tip of the pen to his tongue and jotted a note on a fresh page.
    “All discussion of this type is off the record,” Henry said.
    “What record? There is no record.” Dorn finished his note, closed the book, and returned it to his pocket. “Don’t worry about any of this, Hank. I’ll take care of everything.”

7
    Washington, D.C., Winter 1955
    Fifteen workdays in a windowless room with Paul Marist and Marist’s subordinates from the Office of Security. Questioned without rest, eight hours a day, except for a brief lunch when one of the officers brought in sandwiches. Marist and his men devouring the food while Henry consumed only coffee and cigarettes and thought back through the morning, what he had been asked, the answers he had given.
    He knew of Paul Marist. He knew of everyone. Marist was a veteran of the gung ho operations wing of the company, an energetic figure who strode the halls, smiling and shaking hands. Something in him that Henry distrusted, that Weir had distrusted. That clear-cut sense of confidence.
    Fifteen days. Henry knew that there was an element of revenge to this. These men had spent years in fear of Weir, of Henry, and now Henry was alone, stripped of his patron. They had been correct to distrust him, to distrust Weir, they had been proven right, and now they would take full advantage of the redistribution of power. He had no argument. He understood their anger, their sense of betrayal. He understood their fear, the savage uncertainty. He was trying to discover the answer to the same basic question they were asking. What he knew when.
    They recorded the interviews, took copious notes. They gave Henry a polygraph test every day for a week. They never told him the results,but they implied that he’d failed, which was common practice in these situations. He didn’t argue. Henry stated his story and answered their questions and corrected Marist when he tried to lead Henry down another path. This was Henry’s job. They were good, but this was Henry’s job. They tried every technique they knew. They questioned him one at a time, two at a time, a roomful of officers at a time, a Greek chorus of accusation. They made promises and threats, insinuations. Some of these men he had trained. Some of his very techniques turned against him. Like being interrogated by his own children.
    He said nothing to Ginnie for the first two weeks. The shock was too great, the shame. What he had unwittingly helped Weir accomplish. It was something he needed to contain within himself. When he was home, he moved as if sleepwalking, his head still in the room with Marist while he and Ginnie and the children ate dinner, shoveled the driveway and the walk.
    Finally, during the third week, he sat at the breakfast table and told her that Weir was gone, that he was being questioned. Ginnie stood at the counter with a stunned look, an oven mitt on her hand. What does that mean, she’d asked, and Henry had said that he didn’t know.
    *   *   *
    On the fifteenth day, he sat alone with Marist in the conference room. No polygraph, no notebooks, no papers on the table. Marist was relaxed, sitting back in his chair, looking at Henry as if they were two friends sharing a drink.
    Marist said that they had reached a conclusion. They were confident that Henry hadn’t been involved in the deception in any way. He would be returned to his normal duties. His office would be open to him again. Everything would be as it was.
    Marist stood and Henry stood.