“I haven’t seen you around the canteen lately, Jason,” said Wittlemore. “Any problems?”

“Nothing special,” said Ender. “I’d like to requisition a chair like yours. And a dozen linguists with good skills in Somali dialects.”

“Let me know when you find a first-rate Somali specialist without a serious stutter,” said Wittlemore with a smile that deliberately showed no teeth. “I’ll have him sent to your door with the chair. My chair.”

“I think I could locate prospects at the UN,” said Ender. “We might have to offer market plus twenty.”

Wittlemore ripped back in his chair, pointing the index finger that many in the mega-bureau feared. “I heard about an offer you made one Somali,” he said. “That’s the last anyone’s heard of the poor man.”

“He was Eritrean,” said Ender, thinking he was sure but not absolutely. “They’re on the same side, of course. Not ours.”

Wittlemore nodded like a man who had gone into the bunker for the duration of the forever war that began on 9/11. His was not a political appointment except as all appointments were political in Washington. Wittlemore had started out with DIA, where Ender met him ten years ago. He had moved through the bureaucracy at a steady pace until the run-up to the Iraqi War, when he had risen rapidly as one of those who thought Hussein had WMD and were not afraid to risk chaos to prove a hunch. There were a few like him around. Their presence was blackmail to an administration that could not afford the truth. They often had gray hair, a fashion that began at the top and was said to stand for wisdom. But who could say these days? Wittlemore also had broad shoulders and a soot-black suit that disguised his rapidly risen belly.

“I have a different thought on how to augment our language skills,” he said, showing his teeth, which were perfect, for the first time.

“Do you plan to go to the source for linguists?”