Just as he had his hand on the limousine door, which Murray was holding open for him, Thorn heard a voice, distinctly feminine and obviously English, calling, 'Mr Thorn? Oh, Mr Thorn!'

He turned and saw an extremely attractive young woman waving to him excitedly as she crossed the street. She was wearing a bright red wool coat, with an equally bright red fluffy fur collar, red gloves, and high-heeled black leather boots; a large black leather bag hung over one shoulder. Her smile was dazzling but somewhat forced.

For a moment, Thorn was completely puzzled. The woman looked familiar and yet he knew he had never met her. Then he remembered where he had seen her before: in one of Warren's slides, standing beside the statue of the Whore of Babylon.

It was Joan Hart, the journalist.

Thorn's pleasure at such a pretty woman eager to see him vanished instantly. This was a reporter who, Warren had said, wanted to interview him. But before he could escape into his limousine, she was at his side.

'Sorry to shout at you like that,' she said, 'but I didn't want to let you get away...'

'That's all right,' Thorn said politely, but with a good deal of reserve. He knew why she was there, and he had no intention of giving her what she wanted.

'My name's Joan Hart,' she said. 'I believe Charles Warren told you about me.'

'Yes, he did,' said Thorn. 'I asked him to tell you-'

'He told me,' she interrupted, then changed her tone. 'It's absolutely freezing out here. Couldn't we possibly sit in your car while you tell me why you won't let me interview you?'

Thorn had to smile. 'You would have made a great Avon lady.' And then, with a welcoming gesture toward the capacious back seat of the limousine, he said, 'Get in.'

As soon as they were both settled comfortably in the back of the car, Joan Hart began to grope around in her bag, which looked to Richard as though it could easily have contained all the research for her book about Bugenhagen. She produced an expensive silk handkerchief most woman have been proud to wear as a scarf, and blew her nose.

'I'm an absolute wreck on a cold day,' she said.

'Miss Hart-' Thorn began.

'I know. You never talk to reporters.'

'And I'm on my way to the airport-' he said.

‘Two minutes,' she said. ‘That's all I ask. Please.'

‘I can't miss my plane. If you want to see me another time-'

'I thought planes waited for Richard Thorn,' she said.

'Not this one.’

‘Then I'll ride to the airport with you.' She flashed an irresistible smile. 'Where are you going?'