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."
"Damn right, we won't be," Wiedermann snapped. "I've already established that you lied to us. Our lawyers have indicated to me that we'll be in the clear--"
"Clear for what? You worried about the bureau? Hell, this was almost nine years ago. We've gone through a major change of government since then. PISA's still around, of course, but I doubt if anyone's left in the department who remembers--"
"Not the bureau," said Wiedermann shortly. "I'll bring up the file."
He swiveled in his chair, rolled the chair over to one of the computers, and placed his hands on the keyboard. Data and a blurred picture scrolled rapidly past Xris's vision. A printer whirred. Hard copy slid out into a tray, including-Xris could see from his vantage point--a color photograph. Xris waited with ill-concealed impatience while Wiedermann examined the documents, collated them, tapped them into neat order on the desk, then handed them over to Xris.
The photograph was on top.
Xris looked at it, looked up at Wiedermann. "Who's this?"
"Dalin Rowan. Not his real name now, of course."
Xris frowned, eyes narrowed. "What is this? A joke?"
"I never joke."
"Neither do I." Xris rose to his feet. Flinging the photo and the rest of the data onto the desk, he leaned over it, leaned into Wiedermann's face. "I paid you--paid you damn well--to get information for me. As for what I do with that information, that's none of your goddam business! You--"
"Please, sit down," Wiedermann said
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