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caused all the sadness and loss in our lives. Tom’s awful stupidity first, the way he stole Katia away from me. Then Rodriguez at the CIA, but let’s face facts, Gaia, when have they ever been smart about anything? It makes me so angry. And angerhelps me see the truth. And the real truth is that the only way to get what you want in this world is to be smart enough and brave enough to force things your way. You can’t have the life you want if you’re afraid of your own power—you have to take control of

Violent Tendencies
    OLIVER STOPPED WRITING.
    He raised his head and looked around. He felt dizzy. For a moment he wasn’t sure where he was.
    But of course he knew exactly where he was. The smell of coffee and the ticking clock told him: he was at his own kitchen counter in the middle of his new loft. Behind him, the empty living room reflected the bright afternoon sunshine from the skylights high in the wall. There was no sound but the ticking of the antique clock over the refrigerator and the murmur of Manhattan traffic outside.
    Oliver looked down at the letter he’d been writing. He massaged his hand, which was aching and throbbing. It was easy to see why: the ballpoint writing, which looked so mild and neat at the top of the letter, got darker and more violent as it went down the page. The last paragraph was written in thick block letters, gouged deeply into the lined paper. Oliver saw that he’d actually torn the paper as he wrote.
    He put the pen down on the counter and took a sip of coffee. It soothed him. He took a deep breath, looking over the letter, and then, in one fast move, he ripped the page from the pad and savagely crumpled it up. He had to crumple the next page, too, since the savage writing had gone through the paper.
    A loud buzzer went off. Oliver jumped, spilling the coffee onto the stone counter.
    What the hell?
    It was the door buzzer, Oliver realized. Somebody was here to see him. He had never heard the sound before. In the short time he’d lived at this new Broome Street loft, nobody had ever come to visit. He had no idea who it could be.
    Gaia?
    That would be nice, Oliver thought as he crossed the wide floor toward the big industrial front door. It would be nice if Gaia dropped by. Speak of the devil, he would say, smiling and hugging her. I was just writing to you.
    Then he would offer her coffee, and they would sit on his new Bauhaus sofas and talk, and for a little while he could put the past behind him.
    His footsteps clattered loudly in the vast, empty loft. He remembered the landlady who had shown him the place, pointing out the skylights and the stone kitchen counter and the metal door and all the other beautiful details. The middle-aged realtor had smiled at Oliver flirtatiously as she showed him around, explaining how he could cook for twenty in the huge kitchen when he gave a dinner party. He didn’t tell her that he never gave dinner parties because he didn’t have any friends. I may look like a forty-year-old man about town, he could have told her, but you don’t know the truth.
    â€œWho is it?” Oliver called out.
    â€œMr. Moore?”
    It was a male voice. Muffled by the thick metal door but clearly a young man’s. Oliver didn’t recognize the voice at all.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œMr. Moore, this is Agent Rowan with Central Intelligence. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes, if that’s all right.”
    Oliver cringed.
    Agent Rowan?
    He didn’t know any Agent Rowan. In all the hours the CIA had spent interrogating him, pumping him for every piece of information about his activities in the Organization, tape recording every word he’d said, he hadn’t met an Agent Rowan.
    But I can’t say that, Oliver thought. Standing there with his thumb on the intercom button, with his coffee getting cold on the counter behind him, Oliver realized that he had to let the man in. Because the last thing he