In the midst of this melee, Genevieve Hunter was introduced, and Rowland briefly took her cool, narrow hand. She made some English remark—afterward he remembered that—some conventional, meaningless English greeting, uttered in a low, American-accented voice.

Rowland, who knew of her English schooling, her English stepmother, was thrown by the greeting nonetheless; he had been expecting—what? Greater force, perhaps; vivacity, he told himself afterward; possibly even wit, for her writing could be witty, and her writing style, sharply individual, was crisp.

Instead, he was granted just one look from the long-lidded, cool gray eyes; one touch from that thin hand; he had the sensation that he was erased from her memory before her hand withdrew from his.

He was, though he would not have admitted it, disappointed. Also faintly perturbed—for what reason he could not have said. Max, as shortly became evident, felt no such uncertainties. He was ebullient with glee, could not wait for an excuse to get Rowland to himself. Only twenty minutes after their arrival he was racing up the stairs, followed more slowly by Rowland.

“Must wash, must change,” Max shouted back down the stairs, hauling Rowland into his dressing room. He shut the door.

“Well?” he said with triumph. “What do you think? Our little plot worked. We pulled it off, didn’t we? Women are so easy to deceive.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. A couple of tricky moments, with Lindsay, as expected—but you took care of that. A masterstroke—I’ll admit it, Rowland, I could learn from you. You really were consummately cool. Never turned a hair. Great presence of mind…”

“Thanks, Max. It comes with practice.”

“And Gini—you liked her? She came up to spec?”

“It’s difficult to like someone on the strength of one handshake and one sentence, Max.”

Rowland turned away to inspect the pictures on the walls—rows of photographs from Max’s school days: a rugby team, a cricket team; then Oxford, Max and himself alongside the Oxford motorbike—he was touched by this. Max sank into a chair with an air of disappointment.

“Well, I did warn you,” he said. “She’s reserved. Difficult. I told you—every assignment she’s been offered since Bosnia… if you decide you do want her to work on this story, you’ll have to get her interest somehow.”

“We’ve been over all that.”

“I know. But you’ve got only two days, Rowland. All right, it’s a good story—it might be a very good story. The drugs angle might interest her. On the other hand, she’s been offered a number of good stories these past two months since she’s back from Bosnia. And she’s turned them all down flat.”

“Even so.” Rowland bent to another photograph.

“I’m all for the indirect approach—I buy that. Assess her. Give her a chance to get to know you socially first—fine. Make her like you, even. But I know Lindsay, and I know what she’ll have been saying about you. If you do decide to use Gini, you’re going to have your work cut out for you.”