He stood inside the doorway and waited. Roger Gordian sat at his desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling window with its view of the city skyline and, east of downtown, the solid heave of Mount Hamilton above the Santa Clara foothills. A look at him told two stories. One was about the lingering physical effects of the biological assassination attempt he’d survived last year. The other was about the force of will that had been as vital to his recovery as the gene-blocker codes grabbed during a scalpel raid on the germ factory in Ontario. This was in November, shortly before Thanksgiving. It would always stick in Nimec’s memory, the time of year it happened, because Gordian had revived from his coma precisely on Thanksgiving Day, his awakening a grace that, like so many, had been attained with terrible bloodshed and sacrifice.

Thanksgiving, not quite four months ago. It seemed longer.

Gordian had gained some weight since his illness, but was much thinner than before. Its ravages had left noticeable marks on his features: the pale cheeks, the slight wiriness of his graying hair, the finely veined skin at his temples, the dark hollows under his eyes. But his eyes themselves radiated an undiminished intensity and brightness. He was better, and with time would be better still.

What troubled Nimec on occasion was knowing that few great losses were ever reclaimed in total.

He tried not to let his thoughts slide in that direction right now.

“You knocked,” Gordian said.

“Don’t I always?”

Gordian shook his head. “It started after I got back.”

Nimec sat across the desk from him.

“Really?” Nimec said.

“Really.” Gordian shrugged. “Of course, my observation doesn’t imply an absolute preference.”

Nimec rubbed his chin. “Might just be a passing fad anyway.”

Gordian smiled a little and was quiet. The picture frame in his hands was sized for an 8X10 photograph. Nimec couldn’t see the display side from his chair, but realized Gord had been looking at it when he came in.

“With the bad news from Cold Corners, I’m thinking maybe this isn’t the right time to thank you,” Nimec said. “Except I can’t think of one that would be righter. The car, well . . .”

He paused a moment, at a loss for words.

Gordian regarded him from across the desk. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah,” Nimec said. “It’s . . . choice.”

“And it arrived okay?”

“Last night. A guy rolls it up to my building, has the doorman buzz the intercom, tell me somebody’s dropped off an oversized package. That I might want to come down to the lobby and get it.”

Gordian nodded approvingly.

“He can follow a script,” he said.

Nimec looked at him. “You didn’t have to—”

“—let you know how much I value everything you’ve done for me over the past decade? I’m the person who needs to be grateful, Pete.”

Nimec kept looking at him.