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out.”
    They sat down at a round, white enamel table with a crank-up umbrella. Levine put on a Hawaiian print shirt that was oversize even on him. Neal draped his jacket over the back of his chair, put his sunglasses on, and watched the beautiful people sunbathing around the pool.
    “You look good,” he said to Levine. “You’ve lost some weight.”
    “I’ve been working out. Running, weights, squash … the whole bit. I’m in the best shape since I was in the service.”
    “That’s good.”
    “How about you, Neal, are you in shape?”
    Neal thought about the endless trips up the steep mountain slopes, carrying buckets of water and loads of firewood.
    “I’m in shape.”
    “No, I mean, are you in shape? Operational shape?”
    “Yeah, I think so.”
    Ed looked over at Graham. Graham nodded.
    “I don’t know,” Ed muttered.
    A waiter came over. Graham ordered a beer, Ed got an iced tea, Neal an iced coffee. They sat quietly with their own thoughts until the drinks came.
    “We wanted you to meet Anne Kelley, hear her story, before you committed to the job.”
    “We?”
    “Graham and I … and The Man.”
    “What’s going on here, Ed?”
    The waiter came back, and with a big tray of food.
    “I hope no one minds, I ordered for us.”
    The waiter set down a pastrami on rye for Graham, a rare cheeseburger and fries for Neal, and a salad for Levine.
    “A salad?” Neal asked.
    “So?”
    “Nothing.”
    Ed pointed to Neal’s plate. “It isn’t the Burger Joint,” he said, referring to the little joint that was Neal’s hangout in New York.
    “But what is?” asked Neal.
    “Right. But if you’d rather have some rice or something …”
    Neal shook his head. He was too busy eating to speak. It wasn’t the Burger Joint, but it was still pretty wonderful—food you actually had to grip in your hands.
    Levine dug into his salad with an almost grim determination to enjoy it. He downed it in about ten seconds flat, wiped his mouth, and tried to convince himself he was full.
    “So, Neal,” he said.
    “So, Ed.”
    “Here’s the deal. McCall became a disciple of the True Christian Identity Church. C. Wesley Carter has some interesting ties with groups like the Posse Comitatus, the Klan, and the Nazi party,” Levine said, eyeing the cottage fries on Neal’s plate. “Our contacts in the FBI tell us that these groups are starring to get together, trying to establish a nationwide network. The idea is to maintain their aboveground public parties while creating underground terrorist groups loosely gathered under the rubric of White Aryan Resistance. What is this?”
    “A radish.”
    “Jesus … to coin a phrase.”
    “Could you pass that vinegar over?” Neal asked Ed.
    Ed handed him the bottle and Neal poured vinegar over his fries.
    “Anyway,” Ed continued, “in setting up these little cells these geeks get each other jobs, help their fugitive members hide out … a whole underground network.”
    “And if Harley gets into this network we could lose him for good,” Graham added.
    “Which is why we need to move fast,” Ed said, “now that we know where he is.”
    That’s interesting news, Neal thought. “Where is he?” he asked.
    “So,” Ed asked, “you want to do it?”
    Neal just wanted to make him work for it a little more. Just to protest a little against this old bit—pretending to let you decide if you want to do the job but refusing to tell you what it is until you say you’ll do it.
    Ed leaned over and snatched a cottage fry from Neal’s plate.
    “Do what?” Neal asked.
    Ed looked to Joe Graham.
    “Go undercover, son.”
    Undercover. The most exciting and scariest word in the business. The flame that attracts and burns.
    “Undercover where?” Neal asked.
    Ed munched on one bite of the cottage fry and gestured with the other, making small, vague circles in the air.
    “You know, out there.”
    Out there, out there. Well, boys, why not? I’ve been out there my whole life.
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