Had she not done so, Gini thought, she would have been swayed by him now. For the first time, he allowed his feelings to manifest themselves. Just for an instant, a certain impetuosity and an idealism in his manner reminded her of Pascal.

“I do see that,” she replied quietly.

“In that case—” He paused, as if coming to some sudden decision. “In that case, work with me on it, as I wanted you to do.”

His directness surprised her, as did the swiftness with which the decision was made.

“You’re sure?” She looked at him closely. “Last night, this morning—would you have offered me this story then?”

“No.”

“But you do now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then I accept. I want to work on this. I want to work on it now.”

Her reply pleased him, she thought. He made no comment, however, but turned away from her and restarted the car.

“In that case,” he said, “there’s some other things you should know.”

“Such as who provided that funding? Who came up with a quarter of a million Swiss francs from a numbered Zurich account?”

“Sure.” He smiled and pulled out onto the road.

“Who was it? Someone with known drug connections?”

“No. The reverse. But it is someone you’ll have heard of. Someone whose involvement puzzles me a good deal.”

“Who was it?”

“A Frenchman.” Rowland steered them fast around a sharp bend. “A very rich, and a very influential Frenchman. His name’s Jean Lazare.”

He gave her the rest of the information as they drove back, speaking as succinctly as he had done before. Gini, listening with close attention, admired his ability to impart all the necessary facts, in the correct order, and his scrupulous avoidance of bias. He spoke what he incontrovertibly knew, and nothing more. Used to working in a milieu in which her first task was almost always to try to sift fact from the accretions of supposition and surmise, quarrying for some truth that was often deeply buried beneath layers of misquotations, unsubstantiated allegations, and willful misrepresentation, she was grateful for this. McGuire was unexpectedly punctilious, and punctiliousness was not a quality she despised.

He finished giving her the requisite information as they reached Max’s drive. He steered the Land Rover around to the back and pulled into the stable yard.

“Before we go in”—Gini turned to him—“I want to be sure I have this correct. It was Lazare’s chief aide who delivered that money?”

“Yes. His name is Christian Bertrand. Sorbonne. Harvard Business School. A high-flyer. He’s worked for Cazarès and Lazare for several years.”

“And he returned to Amsterdam this week to collect a supply of White Doves? Six White Doves? Why so few?”

“I don’t know,” Rowland said. “Of course, as Lindsay never ceases to remind me, it’s the Paris collections next week. The Cazarès show is on Wednesday. Perhaps those White Doves were what Lazare needed to get himself through the collection and its aftermath. That’s certainly what the American is claiming… On the other hand, it seems out of character. Lazare isn’t a weak man. He’s supposed to have this iron will, this iron control.”