hostage was even friendly?’ They moved from the frigid night into the brightness and heat of the executive building. ‘You have to wonder what that woman was doing at dusk in a rat-hole basement with a known terrorist in the first place. I can understand you being upset that you shot someone who might be innocent, it’s a credit to you, but don’t lose sleep over it. You made the right choice, Shepherd. Though you do need to work on your marksmanship.’
They passed the honours board that dominated the glass atrium with the name of every top-of-the-class graduate written in gold, dating right back to 1972 when the doors first opened. Shepherd doubted his name would ever grace it. He was a good few years older than the average intake, which showed in his fitness scores, and his shooting was clearly letting him down. The things he really excelled at were not part of the five areas of ability that went towards his final mark; his expertise had not even been thought of when the FBI first came into being.
The elevator door opened and Franklin stepped inside, waited for Shepherd to join him then pushed button number 6. Shepherd’s mouth went dry. The sixth floor was where the most senior personnel lived.
‘You cannot have doubts out in the field,’ Franklin said, his soft voice sounding conspiratorial in the confines of the elevator. ‘Because if you hesitate in a situation like that, you die, or, worse still, your partner does and you end up carrying it around with you for the rest of your life. They don’t put this sort of thing in any of the manuals but I’m telling you how it is, for your own sake and for mine – especially if we’re going to be working together.’
The door swished open before Shepherd had time to respond and Franklin headed down the silent corridor, checking his watch as he passed all the heavy doors belonging to the sub-division chiefs. The corridor was arranged according to rank with the lesser chiefs nearest the elevator. Franklin swept past them all, heading straight for the door at the very end with Shepherd close behind, feeling like he was back in high school and had been summoned to the principal’s office. Only here the ‘principal’ was one rung down from the Director of the FBI, who himself was just one down from the President of the United States of America. Franklin stopped outside the door, checked his watch one last time then rapped twice above a nameplate spelling out: ASSISTANT DIRECTOR.
In the softened silence of the corridor they sounded like gunshots.
‘Come in,’ a deep voice rumbled from the other side.
Franklin gave him the smile, only this time the warmth wasn’t there and it occurred to Shepherd that maybe he was nervous too. Then he opened the door and stepped into the room.
Assistant Director O’Halloran was a thin blade of a man worn sharp by a lifetime in the Bureau. Everything about him was hard and precise: the steel rims of his spectacles; the pale grey eyes behind them that looked up as Franklin and Shepherd entered the room; even his gunmetal hair appeared to have been parted with a scalpel rather than a comb. He was sitting at the same immaculate desk he had been photographed behind on the recruitment literature that went with the application form Shepherd had filled out almost a year ago: same flatscreen monitor, same keyboard, same desk phone and framed photograph. The only things different were the two files on the desk in front of him: one plain, the other with Shepherd’s photograph printed on the first page. Shepherd’s pulse quickened when he saw it.
‘You have quite the impressive resumé,’ O’Halloran said, tapping a thin finger on the file with the photograph. ‘Mathematics major with computer science at the University of Michigan. MSc in physics from CalTech. Best part of a PhD in theoretical cosmology from Cambridge University in England – though you never finished that one, did you? Even so, I imagine you could be making six figures and upwards in the financial sector, yet you chose to sign up as a GS-10 with a basic starting salary of $46,000. Why is that I wonder?’
Shepherd swallowed drily. ‘Money’s not that important to me.’
‘Really, you a Communist?’
‘No, sir – I’m a patriot.’
‘OK, Mr Patriot, tell me about your PhD, why didn’t you finish it?’
Shepherd glanced down at the file, recalling the psychiatric evaluations and background checks that had formed part of his recruitment screening. All of it would be in there, at least everything he had told them. But this was the Assistant Director he was talking to so there could well be other things in there by now – things he had hoped to keep hidden.
‘It’s all in the file, sir.’
O’Halloran regarded Shepherd from the centre of his stillness. ‘I want to hear it from you.’
Shepherd’s mind raced. He was being tested and Assistant Director O’Halloran was far too senior for it to be about something trivial. If it was to do with the parts he’d left out of his past then Franklin could easily have questioned him about it back at The Biograph, which meant it had to be about something else. He should stick to the story he’d already told, volunteer no new information, and hope things became clearer over the course of the next few minutes.
‘I had been in academia all my adult life,’ he said, saying the same lines he had spoken to his recruitment officer. ‘It was everything I knew but not everything I wanted to know. Some people like to gather knowledge just for knowledge’s sake, I always intended to apply mine.’
‘NASA.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘A large proportion of my education was funded by Space Agency scholarships. I also spent a lot of research time on various NASA projects, which is pretty standard for anyone on one of their scholarships: they get extra brain power, we get our feet under the table and gain practical experience of the work we will hopefully end up doing.’
‘So what happened?’
‘9/11 happened – sir. Homeland defence and the war on terror became the number one priority. It took a big bite out of everyone’s budget. Almost the entire space program was shelved. I suddenly found myself with no grant and no job to go to even if I did manage to complete my studies. It was … like hitting a wall.’
‘So you dropped out.’
‘That’s one way of putting it, sir.’
‘How would you put it?’
‘At first I felt cheated, like something had been taken away from me. It seemed pointless to carry on studying for a job that was no longer there. There were plenty of private companies offering to fund the remainder of my studies but they all wanted me to sign my life away in exchange. Work for them as soon as I graduated, study stock markets instead of stars. It wasn’t what I wanted. So I took off and went travelling to clear my head and try and work out what I was going to do with my life now NASA no longer appeared to be an option.’
‘Where did you end up? There’s a gap in your file of almost two years where you seem to have disappeared off the face of the earth: no social security records, no job history, no credit card records.’
‘I was off the grid mainly – Europe first then Southeast Asia and eventually Africa, travelling from place to place, working cash jobs in bars and as migrant labour on farms, staying in backpacker hostels that charged by the night. They don’t take credit cards in most of those places. I’d been a student for most of my adult life so I knew how to live cheap.’
‘Then what, you saw the light and decided to rejoin society?’
‘Yes, sir. I realized I was squandering an opportunity. What happened on 9/11 changed my life – but almost three thousand other people lost theirs. My future had been altered; theirs had been taken away. My intention had always been to pay back the money for my education by devoting myself to public service and working for NASA. I came to realize that just because that particular opportunity had been closed to me didn’t mean I couldn’t pay my dues in other ways.’
‘So you signed