Lazare’s office here, like his office in the main Cazarès building, was austere. It was also, as were all his workplaces, soundproofed. Entering the room and closing the padded door behind him, he wondered if the young man who was claiming to be Madame Duval’s great-nephew had realized this.

He was seated, much as Lazare had expected, in a chair facing Lazare’s large, plain, black desk. His eyes were fixed on the twenty-four-inch video monitor with its view of the runway and a beautiful, arrogant, fuchsia-dressed Quest. As Lazare entered, he glanced around, and then rose politely to his feet. He was, Lazare thought, disconcerted. He had not expected Lazare to be here now, and he had not expected it to be this easy, perhaps.

Lazare looked at the young man, who was taller than he was by six inches at least. He noted the black suit—he, too, was wearing black—and the carefully pressed white shirt. The shoes were newly polished, the tie was discreet. The young man, who had a beautiful face, began on some quick apology and explanation for his presence. Lazare cut him off.

“I know why you’re here,” he said. With a sigh he moved to a side table, poured himself a drink. He offered one to the young man, who refused with a quick shake of the head. Lazare could see that he was almost certainly on something: his pupils were narrowed to pinpricks; he radiated a peculiar tension, like light. White Doves? Lazare thought, then reconsidered: no, probably not. It could be cocaine, or speed—and if so, the young man had better be careful. His judgment would be impaired, his reflexes slowed.

He took his brandy glass with him to the desk, sat down, and looked at the young man. He wondered if he would be cold or impassioned, slow or quick. He might relish drama, Lazare thought—he looked the type. At this he felt impatience, weariness, and a certain contempt.

“Do you know who I am?” the young man demanded with that desire to take the initiative Lazare found tiresome in the young.

“I imagine you are not Madame Duval’s great-nephew,” he replied. He took a sip of the brandy. “I also imagine you’re going to tell me who you truly are. Make it brief.”

The young man did not like that reply. Indeed, a taste for dramatics, Lazare thought, watching him: his response was to remove a gun from his pocket and place it, under his hand, on the desk.

Lazare glanced down at the gun, which he recognized as a Beretta. The safety catch was off.

“Continue,” he said.

“You have security in here?” The young man jerked his gaze away, tensing. “You have an alarm system—something like that?”

“Of course.” Lazare indicated a small panel built into the surface of his desk. “I could activate that. I could also activate a small button set into the floor by my feet. You needn’t worry. I have no intention of activating either. Besides—unless you are a very poor shot—I’d be dead or dying before assistance arrived—so there isn’t a great deal of point to it.”