Niko had been home for it, a rare thing, still jet-lagged and quiet, and my father had spent the meal in fine form, holding court about Cato’s latest deal, Cato’s returns, Cato’s new car, and then he had turned to Niko with a napkin tucked in his collar and asked, in front of everyone, whether “government consulting” came with any actual upside or whether Niko planned to be renting forever.

I felt Niko’s knee go still against mine under the table.

He’d flown in two days earlier from an operation I still cannot name, one that a great many people are alive today because of, and he sat there in my parents’ dining room and let my father needle him about his prospects, and he smiled, and he said something mild and self-deprecating, and he passed the potatoes.

Later, in the car, I apologized to him, and he shook his head.

“It’s the job,” he said.

“Let them think what keeps them safe.” And then he grinned in the dark, that grin, and said, “Besides.