“Yeah, maybe. But he still thinks highly of you. Says despite the jump to the dark side, you’re still annoyingly principled.”

River chortled. “Defining characteristic, I suppose.”

Hugh downed the rest of his drink and finally brought his eyes up to the horizon.

“My son, Boone, has gone missing, River,” he said, his voice so weak, it barely crested above the din of the restaurant.

“Boone? What happened?” River leaned forward.

“I don’t know. He was on vacation in Turkey, of all places, and just stopped answering his cell. The embassy went to the Hyatt, where he was, and said there looked to be a struggle in the room, some furniture overturned, the bathroom mirror shattered.”

River remembered the freckled boy more than the man he became, the kid who liked wearing surfing shirts and dreamed of riding waves along the North Shore even though he lived in the suburbs of Virginia. A sweet, polite kid whose innocence was so noticeable when you spent your career in the backstabbing world of politics.