It was an all-night burger joint, of all places, the kind of establishment that was just a cut above fast food but still had a uniquely American-style theme, a sort of manufactured nostalgia, that had become popular in recent decades. Of course, it wasn't readily apparent what the theme was. The place had numerous newspaper frontpages in glass and metal frames along the walls, all dating to the 1930s – 50s, and beside them were a number of chintzy items—old bicycles, various pieces of sports equipment, and an antique gas pump and the lot. Interspersed throughout were various items of meaningless kitsch.

No. There didn't seem to be a pattern to the pre-packaged nostalgia Tommy found there, but it was to that locale that the three individuals he followed repaired themselves. It was all perfectly American. When in Rome ...

Well, once there, the three met two others just like them, both obviously Chinese, and the crew took a table in the middle of the ample dining area, which otherwise consisted of booths and small, café-style tables, and sat for a time chatting and poring over the menu while they awaited the server.

Tommy took a seat at a booth on the far side of the room, out of the direct line of those he'd followed, and he too perused the menu. The place wasn't terribly crowded, but in any event, Tommy's hearing was keen. To outward appearances, he paid the group no mind. In point of fact, he lent careful ear and tried his best to make out what was being said at the table in question. His Mandarin wasn't perfect, was in fact several generations out of date, but slowly he began to piece together what was being said.

When his server arrived, an obscenely pleasant and cheerful lad named Kim, he ordered a soda and a few burgers, partly as a prop, but also to slake his ever-present hunger.

It wasn't clear what to make of the whole thing at first, only that the presence of these five did not bode well for him and people like him: Five individuals, all of them Gifted, sitting at a single table at a midsized theme restaurant in a major American city. There sat more Gifted individuals at that single table than resided in many small nations. It was obvious their presence was no coincidence and no mere accident. This was Washington, D.C., the capital of the United States, and it took the carefully eavesdropping Tommy no time to ferret out the five were stationed at the Chinese Embassy some miles distant.

Oy vey. But what else would it be? What else could it be? Did the universe imagine that his life had been too easy? Was it too lacking in complications? He swore under his breath.

Naturally, he scolded himself at length, but to a degree far less than he deserved. This development should have been something easy to anticipate. If the United States had possessed any capacity to monitor or regulate the coming and going of Gifted individuals from foreign countries—to monitor foreign agents with special abilities—it likely had died with Ulysses Morse and his organization. That is, if such a capacity had ever existed. His mind flew to the number of connections to China he had seen in the past year, and he cursed himself even more. What use did a knave and a mercenary scoundrel like Morse have for national borders? Like as not, a properly funded bank account would win the man's nod to most any endeavor, no matter how treasonous. And the Chinese government had money.

So, he listened and did his best to discern any useful information from the late-night revelers across the room.

Over the course of the next 90 minutes, it became obvious the five had at least rudimentary training in counterintelligence methods. They exercised sterling information security. Not so much as a peep about what they did at work passed between them, absent a few oblique references to the embassy.

They were less careful about conversing on their personal lives, and, of course, body language talked. Despite the fact all were young and attractive, none seemed to be paired off. A sign of professional discipline? Or just chance? Two of the five (the woman and one of the two men he'd first observed on Massachusetts Avenue) had the intense physicality and shockingly vigorous appearance of people with physical Gifts. The others he couldn't tell—Gifts were always unpredictable—but it became obvious the strong-looking female, who went by the name Bai Lin, was the unofficial leader of the group. She was sweet and charming (and startlingly beautiful), but the others deferred to her, even if only subtly.

Other than those observations, the paltry dribs and drabs of information he learned about the quintet were interesting, but told him little. With a ponderous mental sigh, Tommy realized it would not be enough. There was too much at stake. It was obvious that not just the U.S. government and corporations like Hollirich posed a threat to them. Now the Chinese government seemed to be operating openly in the United States. Despite the numerous adversaries arrayed against them, he would have to add this complication to the list of things with which they needed to contend.

But what other interested players were out there? What individuals and groups were there that hoped to benefit from the existence of people like him, to leverage the knowledge in some way?

He felt his stomach churn—that sense of being overwhelmed by events again afflicted him—and he realized this was a question that needed to wait until later. For now, he could only listen, learn more, and make sure his comrades were aware of this latest development.

But what were these people doing?

An intense annoyance leapt up inside of him, one that it took all of his self-control to tamp back down. He knew himself well enough to know that that sense of being overwhelmed often triggered the uglier and more aggressive side of his character.

"Be patient," he whispered aloud and continued to listen and to plan.

It was obvious that answering this problem would have to wait until another time, but he couldn't afford to lose track of these five. When he first had entered the restaurant, he purposefully had taken a seat that would require him to pass by the table at which the group sat on his way to the men's room, which he did toward the end of dinner. By then, the names and descriptions of the five were inscribed on the back of his mind. That was a start. A little leg work over the next days would flesh out their identities, at least the covers under which they no doubt operated. Tommy had a keen memory, and for him odor was as good as a fingerprint. He needed a solid whiff of each one in order to identify them if they again crossed his path. But he needed to get close enough to get that whiff.

The natural path to the men's room would take him within inches of his quarry.

For the faintest of moments, he thought he'd made a terrible mistake. As he sidled past the closely placed tables, the party was in the midst of a vigorous debate on what to do for the balance of the evening, whether to catch a late-night show or go clubbing. As he slid by the nearest chair with a faint "beg pardon" on his lips, the shorter female of the group looked up at him, and a look of surprise and recognition flashed across her face.

The notion that the young woman recognized him and that he had been under surveillance long enough for the young woman, who went by the name Liang, to imprint on his face shot through his mind. But then the young woman dropped her head and whispered something imperceptible into the ear of the other woman, Bai Lin, who glanced toward him. The woman's eyes widened, and a faint blush colored her face before she looked away.

Before continuing on his course, Tommy had the wherewithal to smile and cast a short wink at Liang, who likewise blushed and averted her gaze. At that point, the two women were near enough for him to sense the slight uptick in the heartrate of each, and it occurred to him with some relief that the look Liang had first given him was surprise rather than recognition. The Gift that veiled his appearance often had such an effect on people.

But when he reached the lavatory, he couldn't help but feel he'd dodged a bullet. The realization gave him scant relief. There were far, far too many people interested in folks like him, and unless he did something there was no telling what might happen. And there was no telling when and how often he and Rhonda had been under surveillance or observation in recent months and years. It was not the first time the idea had occurred to him, but there was no escaping it now.

Should he confront these people tonight and warn them off? He wanted to do so desperately, but felt his breath come in short pants at the thought. Direct action had always been his go-to, his first impulse, but that had not worked well for him recently. But during such a confrontation, would he have to threaten anyone? Let alone beat the hell out of them? Perhaps a brief word with their leader? Would tipping his hand that he knew of their presence be worth the risk? And then what? Warn them all to get out of Dodge before high noon?

No. Sam would know what to do. Tommy had the scent of each and would do a bit more reconnaissance on the group tonight—from the sound, the party was even now departing the restaurant to continue their entertainment elsewhere—but his temper had been on a ragged edge lately. It was all he could do not to dismember the idiot Caldecott-Nevarez days before. The last thing he needed was a battle royal with five Chinese intelligence agents in downtown Washington. His life had enough excitement.

He finished washing his hands, did a quick dry on a paper towel, and on the way out the building's front door, he took a casual right in the direction of the scent of his quarry. As he did, he pulled out his phone and dialed Sam Babington.