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sets.”
    The first agent led him to a Bureau car. “You have the right to remain silent—”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œThat’s what?” the agent asked.
    â€œI’ll take that one—to remain silent.”
    â€œFair enough, but I have to read them all to you.”
    While the agent offered the option of afforded or appointed counsel, Baldovino realized that even though being arrested for the first time was something he had always dreaded, it now carried a certain liberation. He suspected, if nothing else, it would earn him some respect.
    The Arab was brought out in handcuffs, led by the man who had posed as a customer. It occurred to Manny that he had not been reading the package but talking into a hidden radio. He must have been followed. But how had they known?
    Manny suddenly questioned his latest enterprise. Where were New York plates made? Why would it be in New Jersey? And how did the FBI get onto this so fast? He was set up. He had to smile at the expression. Set up —a defense so overused that it had actually become subtle evidence of guilt to all but the most stubborn of jurors. Tanager had to be either an FBI informant or worse, an undercover agent. He had been very smooth: in hindsight, too smooth, and he lacked the uncleansed cast of someone who had survived years in correctional warehouses. Baldovino laughed out loud. The agent in the front seat looked at him. “Are you all right?”
    â€œAm I all right?” He laughed harder. “I’m fucked.” As much as it hurt to admit, Baldovino had again earned his nickname. The Lag had been too slow on his feet. The FBI had hooked strings to him and pulled them in the most uncomplicated sequence possible. And he had performed flawlessly. He closed his eyes tightly, and the fatigue he sometimes forgot he carried burned the underside of the lids. He was so glad his father wasn’t alive.
    â€œMaybe we could let you work this off.”
    Before he could reply, something occurred to Baldovino. The government had gone to a great deal of trouble to target him. He was small-time, and the case certainly wasn’t the kind that normally warranted the attention of the rubric-seeking FBI, but with the agent’s offer to exchange freedom for information, everything suddenly made sense. They were after Mike Parisi. Then something far more immediate struck him. “Where are you taking me?”
    â€œTo the magistrate. For arraignment.”
    â€œYeah, I know that, but where?”
    â€œIn Manhattan.”
    Baldovino felt his breath coming faster. “Can we take the tunnel?”
    â€œWe’ll take the bridge, it’s faster. You do want to try to make bail tonight, I assume.”
    â€œFuck bail. I want the tunnel.”
    Not understanding what was going on, but sensing an advantage, the agent suggested, “Like I said, maybe we could work something out.”
    For the first time Baldovino took a close look at him. He appeared too young to be arresting people. It was a game to these college boys. A year from now, Baldovino would be in prison, and they would be working elsewhere, going to their kids’ games and school plays, their only remembrance of him an exaggerated sense of accomplishment. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as everyone else, but loyalty didn’t take any talent, just the ability to endure self-punishment. It was something he had inherited from his mother that he could finally use. His mouth twisted into an uncomfortable knot of resolution. “Fuck it, kid, let’s take the bridge. Any bridge. The bigger the better.”

7
    ALTHOUGH THEY HAD BEEN HEADQUARTERS supervisors together in Washington, Bernard Dreagen had not seen or spoken to Charles Lansing in almost three years. Their career paths diverged when Dreagen was promoted to the coveted position of administrative ASAC of the New York office, while Lansing, his junior in years, continued his duties in