21

A twenty-foot boat is being rowed by ten men, a ten-foot boat is being rowed by five men, and a twenty-nine-foot sailboat is being sailed by two women. Which boat is moving faster and why? Illustrate your answer.

A text message arrives from George: Have to pay my new friend, can you witness?

Am I allowed to do that on LWOP?

LeSaffre says yes.

When?

1 p.m., same bench? BTW this guy knows me as Damien.

See you then, Damien.

I park on a residential street near Coyote Point and walk the path toward the meeting spot. Instinctively, I double back twice to make sure I’m not being followed. The tradecraft is second nature. You don’t just stop looking over your shoulder after sixteen years in the business. I arrive four minutes early and wait on the bench.

At 12:58, I spot George walking toward me with a slender man in dark slacks. From their body language, I understand that George has made significant progress in the relationship. As they approach, the source puts his arm around George’s shoulder. George tilts his head, confiding something. The source smiles. I stand and walk toward them.

“This is my friend Anne,” George says.

The man reaches out to shake my hand. Firm handshake, damp palm. “Nice to meet you, Anne. Damien speaks highly of you.”

“Likewise.”

I feel George slide something surreptitiously into the side pocket of my purse.

“Anne was kind enough to bring something for you,” George says.

I reach into my purse and pull out the envelope George just deposited there. From the thickness and weight of the envelope, I can tell it’s about five thousand dollars. George and I have done this many times. I open the envelope, pull the blank receipt out, and hand the envelope to George, who passes it to his new friend. The friend quickly slides it into his coat pocket. He does what they always do, some more discreetly than others: runs his hand over the envelope, squeezing to feel the size. The motion is almost imperceptible. He’s done this a few times himself.

George gives me a pen and a small notebook. I initial the receipt, using the notebook as a surface, and George does the same. As he gives the pen to his friend, he says to me: “Where are my manners? My friend here is known as Wheeling.”

“Yes,” the man says, understanding, writing the word “Wheeling” on the source code name line.

For years, George has chosen his source’s code names from a poetry anthology he keeps at his desk. As Wheeling folds the paper, I remember others who came before him—Quartet, Raven, Red Wheelbarrow, many others. The source names I devised were more playful: surfing terms suggested by Fred—Over the Falls, Pointbreak—or the names of candy bars no longer in production: Marathon, Hi-Noon. Sometimes you choose a name for someone you think will be a minor source, and seven years later, when you’re still in the weeds of a case that won’t go away, you wish you’d given it more thought. Maybe one day I’ll tell you about Nickel Naks.

I hand George the receipt, nod to his friend. “Thank you, Wheeling.”

“No,” the man replies in his halting accent. “Thank you, Anne.”