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damsel in distress. If Cliff had his way, he would spend his days righting wrong. As it is, I’m afraid that the system is just going to beat him down. He works for the FDA, and nobody was ever less suited for the cynical government environment. I tried to get him to take a job in the private sector, but he wouldn’t listen. He has this idea that maybe someday he’ll be able to do something to make the system better.”
    Blair’s look carried a timeless wisdom. “Maybe bringing us together wouldn’t be that good an idea after all.”
    â€œThere is nothing between Cliff and me romantically,” Deborah said, understanding her perfectly. “And there never has been.”
    â€œNo?” Blair said doubtfully.
    â€œCliff is, well, was my best friend.” Her eye took on a wounded distance. “I hope he still is. We haven’t seen each other in a year and a half. Longer.”
    â€œWhy was that?”
    â€œA long story.” Debs forced a smile for the waiter who deposited their food. “Saved by the bell. Let’s reserve that story for later and just enjoy the meal, okay?”
    ----
    Horace Tweedie had a nervous, fawning air that irritated almost everyone at the office. His graying crewcut revealed an oblong and bumpy head. His glasses were dark and square as his speech. He wore white, polyester, button-down shirts, short-sleeved in summer or winter, and no one knew if he owned two or two dozen, for he never altered his dress. Every day it was a white shirt, a tiny red bow tie, dark trousers, and dark lace-up shoes.
    Had Horace been brilliant, his habits would have been forgiven and laughed over. But Horace was a plodder, just one step above dull. Instructions more than three sentences long had to be repeated to the point that superiors wished they had simply done the job themselves. Horace had long since been shunted into the filing department, where the work was boringly repetitious and nobody had to force feed Horace Tweedie new instructions.
    But Horace Tweedie didn’t see himself as a plodder. He considered himself to be anything but dull. And he deeply resented not being recognized and rewarded for his gifts and his efforts. He had watched younger people rise within the FDA hierarchy while he remained stationary, plodding toward an early pension. The older Horace grew, the more bitter and angry he had become. As his retirement date approached, Horace’s entire department had begun keeping a calendar, counting down the days until they could finally see the back of Horace Tweedie.
    But Horace had plans for revenge.
    After watching Cliff Devon speak with his boss and then depart through the main doors, Horace returned to his windowless cubbyhole and switched on his computer. Being in files had its advantages. Horace Tweedie had access to all sorts of fascinating data.
    Horace worked quietly and intensely through the remainder of the afternoon, certain that in the long-honored tradition of Federalville most people would spend their Friday either preparing for, discussing, or getting an early start on their weekends. His work was not disturbed.
    Long after the others in his department had left, Horace switched off his console and massaged the cramped muscles in his neck. He punched out the disk from his computer, slid it into his pocket, grabbed his coat, and made for the door.
    The black car was exactly where it was supposed to be, parked on a backroad halfway between the FDA and Horace’s Metro stop. He recognized the vehicle as a brand-new Infiniti, and for a moment he wondered if he shouldn’t perhaps use some of the money to buy a car like that for himself. Why not? For the first time in his utterly frustrating life, Horace Tweedie was almost within grasping distance of just about anything he could name.
    The window glided down as Horace approached. “Well?”
    â€œI have it,” Horace said, and waited.
    An impressively thick packet