For as long as he could remember, Francis Dietz’s eyes had drawn comment. His mother, rest her soul, had praised their acuity and exceptional clarity. His schoolmates had praised their unique grayish hue. The agents he had run in New York had commented first on their quickness, and, as time had passed, on their unnatural depth—his eyes, more than one person had said, seemed to go on forever. In the years since New York, his eyes had continued to change. Now they no longer went on forever. Now they closed off after one penetrated any distance into them, driving the invader in a different direction, like a hall of mirrors. Behind the hall of mirrors, Dietz supposed, his eyes still went on forever. That was why he could see so much that others missed. But over the years he had learned to cover this look—to keep the interlopers out and keep his secrets for himself. Dietz had many secrets. Now, as his eyes flicked across the quay, Dietz saw many things. He saw that something had gone wrong.
