“Our lunch, Rowland. Your apology lunch.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Monday. Sure.”

Lindsay glanced back as she left. Rowland’s female caller was still speaking—indeed, had continued speaking all this while, without pause. Rowland, believing himself unobserved, gave a sigh. He placed the receiver gently on his desk, picked up the volume of Proust, and began reading. As Lindsay closed the door, Rowland’s caller gave a cry of apparent anguish. Rowland, unmoved, turned a page.

At one, just when Lindsay was finally ready to leave, Markov called. He had called twice during her meeting with Rowland. He was more than capable, Lindsay thought wearily, of calling every five minutes for the rest of the day and night. Markov was like that.

“So, sweetling,” he said as she picked up the phone. “Give me the lowdown. Did you plunge in the knife?”

“You bet,” Lindsay replied mendaciously.

“Darling, well done. Straight through the aorta, or was it a more lingering death?”

“Lingering. Now, go away, Markov. I’ll give you the details in Paris, all right?”

“Can’t wait. I’ve been picturing the scene, beloved, all morning. This McGuire—describe him. He’s short? Fat? Receding hair? No testicles to speak of?”

“As a matter of fact, he’s six feet five. Black hair. Mean green eyes. Leaks testosterone…”

“Darling! Why didn’t you say? He sounds exactly my type.”

“Not a prayer, Markov.”

“You’re sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Ah, well. Life’s a bitch. Introduce me sometime anyway. Oops, call on my other line. Maybe it’s Barbados. À tout à l’heure, my museling,” Markov added in a very bad accent, and hung up.

At one-fifteen Rowland McGuire moved to the windows of his editor’s twelfth-floor office, checked his watch, and looked out at the Thames, the buildings of Canary Wharf, and the parking lot below.

“Right on schedule,” Rowland said.

Max Flanders, munching one of his favorite cheese and pickle sandwiches, put down the file Rowland had brought him and joined him at the window.

Both men watched as a small, slender woman emerged from the building and threaded her way between parked vehicles to a new, gleaming Volkswagen Golf. The woman’s hair, short, curly, and unruly, was as black and shiny as the paintwork of her car. She was wearing black high tops, black leggings, a black sweater, and a voluminous black coat. She was carrying a briefcase, a canvas tote, a bundle of books, and a large green file sealed with tape. She was having difficulty balancing these articles, and as she reached the car, several fell. The woman gave the canvas tote a hefty kick. She glared up at the sky. Her lips shaped a succinct expletive, interpretable from twelve stories above. Rowland smiled.

“What a shame,” he said. “She’s changed out of that suit. And it was such a splendid suit too.”

“Not the Cazarès?” Max grinned. “She wore that for your meeting? In that case, it’s definitely war, Rowland. You haven’t a prayer.”

“You’re wrong. She’s off to collect Genevieve Hunter now. Everything’s going according to plan.”