“I can’t see that’s any of your business.” Then: “Lindsay said that?”

“Lindsay? No. Someone else. Lindsay wouldn’t bad-mouth you that way. One, she’s discreet, actually rather seriously discreet, and two—I told you, she likes you. You know, up to a point. Apart from the arrogance, that is. Not that she gives you much thought, except when I’m prompting her. She has other things on her mind right now. Too bad. You’ve noticed the change in her, I guess?”

“Change? Change? Since when? No—I haven’t.”

“Oh, well, she hides it, at work, I suppose. And then, you haven’t been at the Correspondent that long, have you? It’s about what, six or seven months?”

“About that. Yes.”

“Oh, well, it happened just after you arrived, so I guess you wouldn’t really notice the difference. How tense she is. Like really strung out. I mean, I know she wouldn’t break down, or cry—not at work, not in front of someone like you… But I’ve known her for years. I’m gay. She trusts me. So when she sees me, she really opens up.”

There was a silence. McGuire seemed to be weighing this. He frowned out across the valley, the wind lifting his hair from his face. Once or twice he glanced back at Markov, as if about to speak, and then remained silent. Markov was glad of his mirrored glasses; McGuire’s glance, cool and assessing, disconcerted even him. The obvious response of most people at this point would, of course, have been to ask exactly what was wrong with Lindsay. McGuire’s refusal to do the obvious interested Markov; he awarded him a few more points, and waited. Eventually, Rowland said: “I suppose, now that you mention it, I have noticed some alteration. As you say, she doesn’t take me into her confidence, but—she has been quieter just this last couple of weeks.”

It was two weeks since their dinner. Markov made no comment.

“And then—I did notice yesterday. She’s looking pale…”

Pale and interesting, thought Markov, who had supervised the makeup himself. In Markov’s view there were two types of men in the world; one knew when women were wearing makeup, the other did not. McGuire almost certainly fell into the latter category, he had guessed. He now congratulated himself.

“I hope she’s not ill in any way? Is there some problem at home—with her mother, with Tom?”

The question was asked in polite and neutral tones; it was accompanied by another penetrating green glance. Markov, unsettled by that glance, hopped down from the wall on which he had half perched, and moved off toward the path.

“No, no—all fine on the home front,” he said in an evasive way, and waited for further prompts. None came. Silently Markov cursed.

“So, what I was thinking was…” he began as they turned back down the path with unspoken assent, “the thing is—I’m off on location next week. First Haiti. Then Tangier. Then somewhere kind of… remote. In the African bush. So I won’t be back for over a month…”