“Where are you going?”

Finch smiled. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”

7

But he didn’t get very far. Bliss waited for him in the courtyard. Came out into the late afternoon light. One arm shoved into the outer pocket of his short brown jacket. Wore matching pants. A wide-brimmed black hat. A dark green scarf. Face flushed. Almost disguising a thin line of dull red that ran up across his right cheek. Another wound around his hairline, disappearing under the brim. Another remarkable recovery.

Frost clung to his boots. Fast melting. A damp, wet smell to him. Where’d he been? Not here.

“Put the gun away, Finch. And don’t even think about drawing the Kalif’s sacred steel.”

Finch had no illusions about the hand shoved into the pocket. Could see something bulky there. He holstered his weapon. Stood in the gloom with Bliss.

With Dar Sardice.

“Now what?” Tried to push away the thought that Rathven had set him up somehow.

“Now we go up to the Photographer’s apartment.”

“Not mine? I think you know where it is.”

“I don’t trust yours.” Bliss motioned with the gun in his pocket. “After you.” His face closed, angular, serious.

Finch walked past him, tensing for a blow. But it never came. Bliss followed a step behind. Thought about turning on him, but had no illusions about what Bliss would do.

The spy’s voice went cold, condemning. “When you see me again, it will be because I want you to see me. And not before.”

On the fifth floor, they walked to the end of the hall. Apartment 521. Half hidden by the long stalks of slender lime-green mushrooms. Bliss tossed a key on the floor.

“Open the door.”

Carefully, Finch bent down to pick up the key, unlocked the door. Went inside, Bliss following.

The room was empty, except for a stout table in the center. A bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

Photographs covered the walls. Nailed there. A half-dozen in frames were stacked against the far window. Which was blacked out with paint. Some of the photographs were larger than Finch, made up of many smaller pieces of contact paper. All showed water. In puddles. In waves. Close up. From far away. Noticed now how many of them had the towers as a backdrop. How many seemed to have been taken from areas of the shore the gray caps had blocked off.

“Now lock the door.”

Finch did as he was told.

Turned to find that Bliss had taken off his hat. Taken out a cigar. Lit it with a quick scrape of a match against the table. Poured two glasses of whiskey. Moved to a position behind the table. Put his own glass down. Returned his left hand to his pocket.

Bliss took a puff of the cigar, said, “Whiskey?”

Finch moved uncertainly forward. “A last drink for the condemned man?” Took a glass.