Finch leaned forward. Shielded the receiver with his hand. In a low voice: “How did you get this phone number? Don’t you know—”

“Don’t I know what, Finch? That I’m one of your informants, calling in as scheduled? To ask: Did you like what you read?” A mischievous lilt to the words. Blood behind it.

Play Stark’s game or just hang up? Blakely was giving him an odd look. Dapple too.

Finch turned his back on them, phone on his lap. “Yes, I did. I did like it. So long as it’s true. I would have liked to heard the conversation myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Stark said. “I don’t think you would’ve liked that at all. It’s quite melodramatic. Practically bathetic. The kind of thing that would’ve lent itself to opera, back in the day.”

Except then I’d know if you’d left anything out. Or put anything in.

“How about the Subject?” Finch asked. “Did the Subject get away?” Does Heretic know about any of this?

“Alas, the Subject didn’t get far. A tragic case of smoking in bed. Happens all the time. After the Subject finished with our poor agents, the Subject went to sleep. A sound, sound sleep.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Oh, you know what it means, Finch.”

“What do you want, then?”

“What do I want? Nice of you to ask.” Stark’s tone had gotten colder. “I want lots of things. So many things it’s hard to know where to begin. Money’s always good. Especially gold. I could also use a weapon. You know, to defend myself against the rebels. Think you can deliver that? After all, I’ve delivered for you.”

“What you’ve delivered are rumors,” Finch said. “What you’ve delivered is information we don’t know will lead to anything important.”

A pause. Then, “I’m not sure I like your attitude, Detective. Maybe I should be working with someone else. Maybe I should be working with your girlfriend. Or your friend Rathven. Or your partner, Wyte. Or even that madman who lives right outside of your hotel. Would you prefer that?”

Managed a calm tone. “No. I think the arrangement we have will be fine.” Realized he’d curled his free hand into a fist. Knuckles white. Nails biting into his palm.

Laughter on the other end. “I thought you might say that. I thought you might see it my way. It’s all on you now. Just remember: we’ll be watching.”

Hung up before Finch could reply.

7