The name of the man in the SUV was General Aldric Hume, and he was supposed to be dead.He had been supposed dead for seven years. That was how long it had been since his name turned up on a casualty list from an operation that had officially never taken place in a country that officially had no civil conflict. Ethan had attended the memorial. He had stood at the back, as funerals for the relevantly dead were always conducted, in a church nobody who had actually known Hume would have chosen, and he had watched the performance of grief from a suitable distance and left when it was over. He had taken the news the way he took most such news: a permanent subtraction from the short list of people he trusted, a list that had never been long and that kept getting shorter.Hume was not dead. He was sixty-one and looked every year of it, weathered in the particular way of men who had spent decades in places that required constant adaptation. His eyes were exactly as Ethan remembered. That spec