“They’re both laughing,” Nisha said. In Jed’s mind, Zhao was in the center of the screen across from the camera, his face distorted by the fish-eye lens, but he supposed he didn’t really know where the man sat. “Zhao is at the head of the table, to the far left of my screen,” Nisha said as if reading his mind. Possible, he supposed. If Nisha had any gifts, she’d not seen fit to share that with him.

He resumed pacing, deciding it was better not to look like someone receiving information via an earpiece and staring at the floor. But this time he walked slowly, away from the lobby and toward the two other conference rooms beyond number six. He stole a glance at Grayson, whose eyes flashed sympathy before scowling at him and setting off on his own stroll back toward the mezzanine lobby. Jed made a show of looking into the open door of another conference room, scanning for any threats—or so it would appear to anyone watching him.

“The target took a sip,” Nisha said in his ear. “He’s not making a funny face or anything, so I’m guessing he doesn’t taste anything odd. . . . The Chinese security guys are by the window and seem unconcerned. Just took another sip . . . and he put the cup down. He’s talking now. C’mon, buddy, drink up . . .”

“It’s teatime, not a game of beer pong. He’s not going to chug it,” John said back with a chuckle. “Let’s be patient. This is working out the way we intended.”

“Our waiters are leaving the room . . .”

Jed turned and saw the doors to conference room six open and their two Chinese “waiters” exit, pushing an empty cart ahead of them. They passed Grayson and the Venezuelan bodyguards and disappeared around a corner.

“Zhao is reaching for the cup . . . took another sip . . .”

The wait was agonizing, made more so by his need to look completely unaware of what might be going on behind the door. He paced, listening to Nisha’s diligent play-by-play while imagining it on the screen in his mind.

Check the lobby.

Another sip.

Back past the door, ignoring Grayson, who now scrolled on his cell phone as if receiving a message.

A sip. The cup pushed forward and away.

Check the stairs up from the lobby floor.

Another sip—no, it was aborted by the need to reply to something the Russian scientist asked. Okay, there’s the sip.

Fifteen minutes went by in what felt like an hour.

The waiters returned.

Zhao’s tea was refreshed—tea poured from a new carafe.

Sip.

Stare past the door.

Sip.

“They’re packing up to leave,” Nisha said in Jed’s ear.

He barely cut himself off from asking the question, but she answered it in any case.

“He drank about half the cup, it looks like, but maybe got most of the drug, because they refilled it?”