The safehouse door clicks shut behind them. One bed, a kitchenette that hasn't been cleaned since the Bush administration, and a single window overlooking a parking lot. Devlin sets down his go-bag and surveys the room with the placid expression of a man touring a disappointing hotel suite.

He loosens his tie — no tuxedo tonight, just a rumpled dress shirt with the sleeves already rolled — and glances over at you with a faint, unreadable smile.