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through the floor when he noted this look. Was that all the old man had in his tank today?
    Bullshit?
    “Is that all you told them?” asked Puller.
    He waited in silence for a minute or so. His father closed his eyes and his breathing grew steady.
    Puller closed the door behind him and headed down to confront the stars and suit. They were seated in the otherwise empty visitors’ room. He sat next to Rinehart, the Army three-star, figuring the bond within the same branch of service might be stronger by the physical proximity.
    “Nice visit with your father?” asked Schindler.
    “In his condition the visits are rarely nice, sir,” said Puller. “And there was no lucidity.”
    “We can’t discuss this here,” said Rinehart. “You can drive back with us to the Pentagon. After the meeting we’ll get you transport back here for your car.”
    *  *  *
    The drive took about thirty minutes before they pulled into one of the parking lots of the world’s largest office building, though it comprised only seven floors, two of which were basement-level.
    Puller had been to the Pentagon countless times in his career and still didn’t know his way around very well. He had become lost more than once when he had strayed from his regular route. But everyone who had ever been here had gotten lost at least once. Those who denied doing so were lying.
    As they were walking down one broad corridor they had to quickly move to the side as a motorized cart sped toward them carrying stacks of what looked to be large oxygen tanks. Puller knew that the Pentagon had its own emergency oxygen supply in case of an enemy attack or attempted sabotage. The attack against the Pentagon on 9/11 had raised security here to unprecedented heights, and no one foresaw it ever being lowered.
    In getting out of the way of the cart Rinehart stumbled a bit, and Puller instinctively grasped his arm to steady his military superior. They both watched as the motorized cart zipped past.
    Puller said, “The Pentagon can get a little dangerous, sir. Even for three-stars.”
    Rinehart smiled. “Like jumping foxholes sometimes. As big as this place is, sometimes it seems too damn small to contain everything and everybody.”
    They reached an office suite where the name “Lieutenant General Aaron Rinehart” was on the door. The three-star led them inside, past his staff, and into an interior conference room. They sat down and water was poured out by an aide, and then the door closed and they were alone.
    Puller sat across the table from the three men and waited expectantly. They had not spoken about anything significant on the drive over, so he was still in the dark about what they wanted.
    General Daughtrey leaned forward, seemingly pulling the others along, for they all mimicked his movement. “What we got from your father was one word: ‘bullshit.’”
    “He’s nothing if not consistent, then,” replied Puller. “Because that’s the same thing he told me.”
    “You read any meaning into that?” asked Schindler.
    Puller gazed over at him. “I’m not a shrink, sir. I don’t know what my dad meant by it, if anything.”
    “When was the last time you visited your brother at DB?” asked Daughtrey.
    “About six weeks ago. I try to get up to see him as often as I can. Sometimes the job gets in the way of that.”
    “What did he say during your last visit?”
    “Nothing about escaping, I can assure you.”
    “Okay, but what did he say?” Daughtrey persisted.
    “We talked about our father. He asked how my work at CID was going. I talked to him about being at DB. Asked him how it was going.”
    “Did you talk at all about his case?” asked Schindler. “What landed him in DB?”
    “It’s not a case anymore, sir. It’s a conviction. And no, we didn’t talk about it. What is there left to say?”
    Rinehart asked, “Do you have a theory on what happened with your brother’s escape?”
    “I’ve formed no opinion because I don’t know all the