Lindsay had her arms around Max’s waist. Max’s glasses were winking and blinking; he was on the edge of giving way.

“It’s damn well pointless,” said Rowland, who seemed to take exception to such wiles. “So he saw them at the airport together. So what? Maybe it’s mildly interesting, from my point of view. It’s not headline news.”

“You don’t know Markov. I do. This was just the aperitif, Rowland. Just let me talk to Markov. I know there’ll be more.”

“Here’s a better idea.” Rowland gave her a cold green glance. “How about I talk to Markov? Because he certainly won’t jerk me around.”

“Forget it, Rowland. Markov wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

“Oh, you think so? Why?”

“Because he doesn’t know you. He wouldn’t like you. He’s tricky to handle, and you’re one hundred percent guaranteed to rub him the wrong way.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be suckered the way you’re being suckered, that’s for sure. Max, talk to this woman, will you?”

“Not a chance,” Max said, suppressing a smile and backing away. “I’m staying out of this, children.”

“Just make her see reason, Max, that’s all I ask.”

Max hesitated. He looked from Rowland to the small, flushed figure of Lindsay. She had adopted a pugilistic stance; she looked both like a pretty woman and like an angry young boy. Rowland, in contrast, could sound heated while contriving to look extraordinarily cool. He was leaning against the mantelpiece, a glass of Fonseca in his hand, his entire attitude one of insolent male arrogance. Max sighed.

“It can’t do any harm to propose the idea, Rowland,” he said in a pacifying tone. “Lindsay’s right—Markov is temperamental. He’s also extremely well informed. And he and Lindsay have a special relationship. Markov adores her. She has him eating out of her hand.”

“A special relationship? With Markov?” Rowland’s face registered disbelief. “Well, now I’ve heard everything—”

“Maybe,” Max cut in in the tones of Solomon, “maybe it would be an idea if you both saw him. Together.”

This U.N. approach was a mistake. Rowland raised suffering eyes to the ceiling, and Lindsay, seeing this, began speaking very fast.

“If you imagine, Max,” she began, “that for one second I’d sit down in the Grand Vefour with that stupid, knuckleheaded, obstinate, arrogant Irishman over there… If you think I’d let him loose on Markov, you must be insane. He’s about as subtle as a bear in boxing gloves. He’s a throwback, Max, to some very very primitive time. Climb back in your tree, Rowland, why don’t you? And never, ever, under any circumstances ask me for my help again!”

“Done,” Rowland replied. “No problem there. I prefer to work with professionals anyway. Temper tantrums aren’t my scene.”

He took a small, well-timed sip of Fonseca as he said this. Lindsay did not reply. She seemed, Max thought, to be practicing some odd form of rhythmic breathing. They both watched her breathe in and out, precisely ten times.

“Rowland,” she said at last, her voice now sweetly calm. “You do not understand the fashion world. I know it’s very very hard for you to admit that, but I think that when the effects of the port have worn off, even you will realize that it’s true. You need me to check that file out, and you need me to talk to Markov, and you need my expertise, I’m afraid, because without it, Rowland, you’re flying without radar, in fog, over mountains. You’re flying blind. When you realize that, come the morning maybe, I shall expect you to apologize. I shall expect you to grovel, Rowland, for several hours. ’Night, Max.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Lovely dinner. Sleep well.”