Isabelle nudged Yoko, and whispered, “Check out the Director and Amalie. Tell me that isn’t love about to bloom.” Yoko giggled. “And look at Dennis and the sappy expression on his face. He’s already in love with Rosalee. That’s a good thing. Dennis needs someone to love, and it sure looks to me like Rosalee is returning his affection.” Yoko continued to giggle.

Harry got up and said he was going outside to get some air. He looked pointedly at Jack, who quickly agreed that he could use some air, too.

Outside, the night was sticky hot. “Let’s take a walk, Jack,” Harry said, striding off. Jack had no other choice but to follow. “What’s up, Harry?”

“Think about it, Jack. I’ve got eyestrain right now from staring at everyone inside that hotel trying to see who didn’t belong. As in someone Moss sent. He isn’t here, that’s obvious. We both know he wants to know if his wife showed up. How else is he going to find out unless he’s got someone here doing surveillance. I haven’t seen anyone like that, have you?”

“No, and if Snowden has people here, I haven’t been able to spot them either. So we are meandering around hoping to . . . what, spot someone with a camera that has long-range optics?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered.

“We should be smoking a cigarette or a cigar, something, so we don’t stand out. Two guys in tuxes strolling along is going to raise eyebrows. People might think we’re gay.” Jack expected Harry to make a comment, but he didn’t.

“Pay attention, Jack, your four o’clock, guy in a Tommy Bahama shirt across the street. I say we pretend to have had too much to drink, and we go down one block, cross over, sneak up on him, and take him out.”

“Works for me, Harry,” Jack said, picking up his pace. It only took five minutes of staggering down the pavement, pretending to hold each other up, and extolling the virtues of the smoking-hot babes inside the Four Seasons. The man standing against a building, well out of sight, dropped the camera he was holding to his side and waited for the two drunks to pass him.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Gunter Wolf. How’s it going, man?” Jack said happily, as Harry reached for the detective’s camera.

“You know this guy?” Harry asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Jack drawled. “When I was a prosecutor, he was a regular in court testifying in divorce cases, usually battery. He’s a pro. Who you working for, Gunter?”

“C’mon, Emery, you know I can’t tell you that. Client privilege.”