“What d’you mean, Gini’s unavailable?” Lindsay had said. “According to Pixie, she was flying here this evening—at least that was the plan.”

“Sorry, Lindsay. You’ll have to ask Rowland. My other line’s ringing. I have to go.”

When Max had mentioned Gini’s name, Lindsay had detected some froideur. With a sigh, and a glance at Markov’s maddening dark glasses, she rose.

“Look, Markov, let me try the hotel again. Rowland must be answering now.”

“Lindy. Lindy. Never chase them. It’s a very bad idea, you know.” Markov wagged a finger and gave her a look that might have been motherly.

“I’m not damn well chasing him.” Lindsay hesitated, then sat down again. “Get this straight, Markov. I work with him. I need to talk to him about work. About Maria Cazarès. That’s it. End of story. That’s all.”

“You can’t lie to me, Lindy. You never could. I see it all. I see the light in the eyes, the flush in the cheek. You know Aphrodite, the goddess of love? You know she had children? You know what those children were called?”

“No, I don’t. I never even knew she had children.”

“Well, she did. As a result of an adulterous affair with Ares—the god of war. She had five children by him, Lindy. You know what they were called?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“You bet I am. They were called Eros and Anteros—that’s love, and reciprocal love; Harmonia—that’s easy enough to understand. And then there were two others. Their names were Deimus and Phobus.”

“Meaning?”

“Terror and fear.”

Markov gave her one of his small, sad, flickering smiles. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“Worth remembering, yes? The children of love. I think about that particular union from time to time. I think about the offspring of that union. Terror and fear.”

“Are you giving me a warning, Markov?”

“Sure. Oh, sure. You won’t listen, no one ever does. So, I’m just kind of sliding in a little reminder. On account of the fact that I can’t stand most women, but I’m pretty fond of you. Also, you’re unhappy, aren’t you?”

There was a silence. Lindsay considered Markov. It did not surprise her that he should be so well acquainted with Greek myth. It would not altogether have surprised her had Markov leaned across the table and begun speaking Greek. Markov might go to extreme lengths, both in his appearance and in his manner of speech, to suggest he was a fool, a gadfly, a fashion victim: in reality, he was none of these things. Markov was astute, sensitive, gifted, and intelligent, also both resilient and brave. His long-term partner had died of AIDS two years before; Markov had nursed him through the final stages of his illness. Markov was indeed in a position to understand why terror and fear should be the offspring of love.