Strikeout. I left my name and telephone number, but it seemed obvious he wasn’t going to call me back. As I sat at my desk, looking out the window at the morass of traffic on Connecticut Avenue, it occurred to me that my best opportunity to get Gaspard was right then, that day, in person, because I knew he was there in the office. I looked at the documents Rubino had given me. The address of New Asia Development was 4825 Bethesda Avenue. That was off Wisconsin Avenue, near Old Georgetown Road—about a half mile from the subway. I grabbed a notebook and headed for the door.

The New Asia office was in a simple three-story building in Bethesda’s small commercial district. It had everything a yuppie neighborhood could want: fancy coffee bars on either side of the street, a shop selling expensive trail bikes and two bakeries. I entered the building and looked at the directory on the wall. The building was indeed managed by TRC Properties. I smiled to think of Rubino’s agent, whoever he was, beavering away through the trash. There was a listing for New Asia Development Corp. in Suite 321.

A United Parcel Service deliveryman entered the elevator just after me. His brown van was double-parked in front of the building. The package in his hand was addressed to New Asia Development Corp. “I’m going up there,” I said. “I’ll drop it off for you.” He looked at the box. It was a new cartridge for a laser printer, worth maybe twenty bucks. “Hey, thanks,” he said. He handed the package over and ran back outside to rescue his truck.

The door displayed the numerals “321” but didn’t otherwise identify the occupants. I knocked, package in hand. There was a delay, and then a man pulled back the door. He had a telephone cradled against his ear, and he was talking in French. He looked just like his photograph—a sleek French preppy. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and an expensive tweed jacket. His face looked blank, unguarded.

“I have a package for you,” I said. Without being invited, I stepped inside the door. The office was just one large room. There was a big desk over by the window, and a smaller desk closer to the door for his secretary. She seemed to be out; except for me and Gaspard, the place was empty.

He held up his finger and mouthed the words: One moment. I stepped farther inside and closed the door behind me. He held up his finger again, said a few more sentences in French, and then hung up the phone. “Sorry,” he said. His mind was elsewhere.

“This is for you.” I handed him the package. No longer distracted by the telephone call, he now gave me a puzzled look.

“Are you from UPS?”