"He's not in yet," said Travis. "So go ahead. I can talk."

You're in danger, kid, said the raspy voice.

"What?" Travis was panicking already. "Is there a bomb in here?"

No, but there might as well be. A time bomb. Tick tick tick.

Deep Throat said nothing more, which irritated Travis. The informant always had to be dramatic, speaking in short, simple, ominous statements after which Travis had to keep questioning to finally drag the truth out of him. Deep Throat was a real tease.

"Go ahead, Deep Throat. I'm listening."

Your buddy, George Meade, is one of us.

Travis laughed nervously. "What do you mean? That's crazy."

He is one of us. Illuminati. You ever hear the expression, wolf in sheep's clothes, kid?

"He's my friend and the most trustworthy guy on the planet."

Of course he is. He's an agent, that's his job.

"So why is he doing this? Did he find out about you and me?"

No. He doesn't have a clue that we talk.

"Well, why then?"

To control the game, you have to be both players.

"I don't get it. What do you mean I'm in danger?"

Your friend Meade is going to kill you tomorrow afternoon. He's going to shut down the site and come back inside, out of the cold, for a while, then he's going to be assigned to infiltrate a militia group under a new identity.

"Goddam," Travis said, sweating. The hand that held the phone was shaking.

Meade bought you a gun. You two like to go to the shooting range together.

"Yeah. So?"

Bring your gun to work that day. Protect yourself. We have to keep getting the truth out there. Not just the truth, but the answers. I've put myself at huge risk giving you all the information I have. I want you to live so we can continue our work of warning America.

"Okay," Travis said, his voice cracking, "you can count on me to protect my life."

Good.

"Wow. This is all real to me now."

It was always real, kid, and you are in it up to your neck. Good luck. Be careful. George Meade is one of our organization's most deadly assassins--

Travis hung up the phone and listened, eyes wide with fear, as he heard George coming up the stairs.

George and Travis ate their lunch in silence.

George watched Travis fidget with his food nervously, while Travis was aware that George was studying his every movement, his face pale.

"Do you have a headache?" George asked.

"Um, yeah. That's it. I don't feel well today."

"Listen, Trav, I want you to do me a favor."

"Sure thing, George. Anything. You name it."

"I don't want you to answer the phone tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?"

"I can't explain. It's, well, it's a secret. And I know it's a big favor. But I don't want you to answer the phone, even once, tomorrow, even at home before you come in, not even at night. Can you do that?" Travis kept his eyes on George's hands. He was wondering if George would strangle him, shoot him, poison him or -- poison him.

"Sure, I guess. I have to ask a favor, too."

George forced a smile. "Anything you want."

"I'll get lunch tomorrow. I can't explain why. It's also a secret."

"Okay," George said, blinking rapidly.

George didn't get the mail on Tuesday. He marched up the stairs, his gun in the pocket of his jacket, and pretended to work, eyeing Travis warily, who appeared to be eyeing him, too, although he wasn't sure.

Travis couldn't concentrate, rubbing his head, aware that George kept staring at him, fidgeting with his hands. "Got a headache?"

"Yeah, I do," said Travis, carefully.

"Do you hear a noise?" George asked, looking at the ceiling.

"What noise?" Travis asked, not taking his eyes off George.

"It's like a buzzing sound. Like radio static, but barely audible."

Travis shook his head, but said, "Yeah, I do hear it. A little. Why? What's your point?"

"Nothing. I'll go get lunch."

"No, I'm getting it today, remember."

"Right. Well, I'm not hungry."

"You? Not hungry? What's the matter?"

George forced a laugh that came out wrong. "I guess I'm getting paranoid these days. Running the site, you know. I've actually been thinking of shutting it down."

"You are?"

"Yeah."

"What will you do then?" Travis said viciously. "Join a militia group?"

"I'm not that paranoid. I just want to live. I don't deserve to die."

"Who said anything about you dying?"

"There's a plot against my life."

Travis couldn't take the pressure anymore. "What's wrong with you, George? You are paranoid. It's like you don't trust me all of a sudden, ever since yesterday."

He opened his drawer, where his gun lay among his pens and Post-It pads. He frowned, trying to remember if the safety was on or off.

"Why are you frowning? Is it the headache?"

George put his hand near his pocket, where Travis noticed a suspicious bulge.

"What's that in your pocket?"

"A gift for a friend. You answered the phone, didn't you?"

Travis said, "I trust you, George. I don't want to die either."

"I trust you, too, Trav. You're my best friend."

George started to relax, and so did Travis. Everything might be okay, they thought.

Just then, the phone rang.