Lillian wrestled with her ambitions and anxieties and it came to a draw. “I’ll tell you,” she said. “I’ll tell you and you won’t owe me anything. But … I would appreciate your consideration. Either before the election or after, if the gambit I have in mind succeeds.”

“All right,” said Saeger. “You’ve got it. Provided you aren’t in prison yourself for aiding in this jailbreak.”

“I was out of town all day,” said Lillian. A truth, swiftly followed by a lie. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“Lucky you.” There was irony in that, but Lillian failed to catch its meaning. “Nine tomorrow morning?” Saeger asked, businesslike once more. “Better make it unofficial. Lyle’s again?”

“Is it open at nine?”

“It can be.”

“Lyle’s, then. I’ll be bringing someone along, if that’s all right.”

“As long as they’re not packing a snubby.”

She couldn’t promise—given Daoud’s line of work he might well carry a gun. But she was fairly sure he wouldn’t aim it at Saeger. “Nobody’s going to be shot.”

“Good enough for me.” And she rang off.

Sykes House was next, but they regretted to inform her Mr. Qassan was no longer in residence. Cursing, she reached for the telephone directory and flipped through it at speed until she turned up Cross-Costa Imports. It was far past business hours, but maybe, if fortune’s wind filled her sails …

“Cross-Costa Imports, Jamila Osogurundi speaking. Because you’ve called long past business hours and my clerks are gone. What in damnation do you want?”

“I’m so sorry,” said Lillian. “I’m trying to find Daoud Qassan.”

“Qassan? Hundred to one. You ever try craps? He’s sleeping in the office tonight. Tossed out on his rear. Unlucky in love.” Lillian heard the impact of a palm over the mouthpiece, and then a muffled “Qassan! Telephone!”

Another series of shufflings, and then: “Hello?”

«Daoud. It’s Lillian.»

«Oh.» She heard his steadying breath. «Is … is everything all right?»

«As much as I know, yes. I am only calling because I want you to meet someone. Tomorrow, at nine in the morning. Are you free?”

«Meet who?»

«I do not want to say on this line. If the ACPD had any inkling what Cross-Costa got up to, it would be tapped. And they’d find someone who spoke Porashtu. «Only tell me yes or no.»

«What is the favor?»

«Sorry?»

«Someone told me, just the other day, I would be well advised to learn what favor was being asked of me before I granted it.»

She made a fist and tapped it with great restraint against the pages of the directory. He was right, and she owed it to him. But how to say?