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man said, and he turned and walked away from her and out a door.
    Holly went to get some lunch.
     
     
    TWELVE
    LANCE CABOT WAS HAVING LUNCH in the Farm’s dining room, in the main house, when a woman approached and handed him an envelope. “Thank you,” he said to her retreating back. He put down his fork and opened the envelope. Inside was a summons to a meeting of the executive committee at two p.m. He glanced at his watch; he still had twenty minutes, so he ordered dessert and coffee.
     
    THE EXECUTIVE COMMITEE met in the paneled conference room two floors under the main house. Lance arrived at five minutes before the appointed hour and found no one in the room. He took a seat, rested his head against the back of the high-backed chair and closed his eyes. At one minute before two, half a dozen people filed into the room, among them the director of training, who was the on-site executive officer in charge of the Farm; the director of curriculum, who planned the courses and chose the instructors; and, to his surprise, the deputy director of Central Intelligence for Operations, Hugh English, who was either the number two or the number three man at the Agency, depending on whom you asked.
    English nodded at Lance, and Lance nodded back. He and English had never been particularly fond of each other.
    “Good afternoon,” said the director of training, Tom Harding, who was tall, slim and in his late fifties. “We had an incident this morning, and Jim Willis has called into question whether one of our trainees should remain at the Farm.” Willis was the director of curriculum, a short, thick man with a bald head and a perpetual scowl.
    Since Lance had no overall duties at the Farm, he realized that Harding must be talking about one of his trainees. He sat up and became alert.
    “Jim,” Harding said, “why don’t you tell us about it?”
    “It’s the trainee Harry One,” Willis said. “I believe her to be unsuited to be in this program.”
    Lance leaned forward. “Willis, I would be very interested to know specifically why you consider her unsuitable.”
    Willis shrugged. “Background, experience, temperament.” He paused for effect. “And she attacked one of my instructors this morning.”
    That caused a stir in the room, though no one said anything.
    “I won’t put up with that from any trainee,” Willis said.
    “Circumstances?” Lance asked.
    “The circumstances don’t matter,” Willis said. “It’s a rule, and a hard and fast one.”
    “All right, then, Jim,” Lance said, “You mentioned her background, experience, and temperament. Tell us what you find deficient in those areas.”
    “She was an army MP, for Christ’s sake,” Willis said, his voice full of scorn. “The lowest kind of cop, in my opinion.”
    “She commanded a company of MPs and finished as a deputy regimental commander,” Lance said. “She excelled at everything she did in the army, and she went through two very tough FBI courses at Quantico. Excelled in those, too.”
    “Then she was a small-town cop,” Willis said, as if Lance had not spoken. “Traffic stops, that sort of thing.”
    “She was chief of a force of three dozen officers and, on two occasions, broke cases the FBI said were of national importance.”
    “That’s open to question,” Willis said.
    “And temperament?” Lance asked. “What flaws have you detected in her temperament?”
    “She doesn’t know how to follow orders,” Willis said. “Then there’s that fucking dog; she won’t go anywhere without it. It’s disruptive.”
    Lance sat back. “She got through twenty years as a regular army officer with outstanding fitness reports and with no apparent problem following orders. And I wasn’t aware the dog was fucking anybody,” he drawled.
    Laughs were stifled around the table.
    “Then there was the incident of this morning.”
    “Tell us about that, Jim,” Lance said.
    Harding spoke up. “That won’t be necessary,” he said.
    “Why