The Passage by Justin Cronin

assigned to counterterrorism. When the Army had come looking for two field agents, Doyle had been the first in line to volunteer. Wolgast couldn’t quite figure that; on paper, what they were calling “Project N OAH ” had looked like a dead end, and Wolgast had taken the assignment for just that reason. His divorce had just come through—his marriage to Lila hadn’t ended so much as evaporated, so it had taken him by surprise, how blue the actual decree had made him—and a few months of travel seemed like just the thing to clear his mind. He’d gotten a small settlement in the divorce—his share of the equity in their house in Cherry Creek, plus a piece of Lila’s retirement account from the hospital—and he’d actually thought about quitting the Bureau entirely, going back to Oregon and using the money to open up a small business of some kind: hardware, maybe, or sporting goods, not that he knew anything about either one. Guys who quit the Bureau always ended up in security, but to Wolgast the idea of a small store, something simple and clean, the shelves stocked with baseball gloves or hammers, objects with a purpose you could identify just by looking at them, was far more appealing. And the N OAH thing had seemed like a cakewalk, not a bad way to spend his last year in the Bureau if it came to that.
    Of course, it had turned out to be more than paperwork and babysitting, a lot more, and he wondered if Doyle had somehow known this.
    At Polunsky they were ID’d and asked to check their weapons, then went to the warden’s office. Polunsky was a grim place, but they all were. While they waited, Wolgast used his handheld to check for evening flights out of Houston—there was one at 8:30, so if they hustled they could make it. Doyle said nothing, just flipped through a copy of Sports Illustrated , like he was waiting at the dentist. It was just after one when the secretary led them in.
    The warden was a black man, about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair and the chest of a weight lifter compressed under his suit vest. He neither rose nor offered to shake their hands as they entered. Wolgast gave him the documents to look over.
    He finished reading and looked up. “Agent, this is the goddamnedest thing I’ve ever seen. What in the hell would you want Anthony Carter for?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. We’re just here to make the transfer.”
    The warden put the papers aside and folded his hands on his desk. “I see. And what if I said no?”
    “Then I would give you a number to call, and the person on the other end of the line would do his best to explain that this is a matter of national security.”
    “A number.”
    “That’s correct.”
    The warden sighed irritably, spun in his chair, and gestured out the wide windows behind him. “Gentlemen, do you know what that is out there?”
    “I’m not following you.”
    He turned to face them again. He didn’t seem angry, Wolgast thought. Just a man accustomed to having his way. “It’s Texas. Two hundred sixty seven thousand square miles of Texas, to be precise. And the last time I checked, Agent, that’s who I work for. Not for anybody in Washington, or Langley, or whoever the hell is on the other end of that number. Anthony Carter is an inmate in my care, and I’m charged by the citizens of this state to carry out his sentence. Short of a phone call from the governor, I’m going to do exactly that.”
    Goddamn Texas, Wolgast thought. This was going to take all day. “That can be arranged, Warden.”
    He held up the papers for Wolgast to take. “Well then, Agent. You better arrange it.”
    At the visitors’ entrance they collected their weapons and returned to the car. Wolgast got on the phone to Denver, which patched him through to Colonel Sykes on an encrypted line. Wolgast told him what had happened; Sykes was irritated but said he’d make the arrangements. A day at the most, he said. Just hang around and wait for the call, then get