The man’s lips turned up ever so slightly, but amusement never reached his eyes. He said, “There is, as you say, no hurting.”

Jack exposed his neck, pointed to the knife wound.

“Is that what you’re telling her about me?”

“No. This is unintended. Unfortunate.”

“It felt pretty damn intentional when it happened.”

A flash of angry irritation broke through the facade and faded half as fast, the tell of a man unused to being threatened or challenged, a man for whom stating a thing once was effort enough and being forced to repeat it would send the oxygen waster to the morgue. He said, “I give my word, personal guarantee, she is not harmed.”

Jack let the cuff drop and slowly stood.

There were compromises to be had.

For now.

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 22

JACK

THE ROOM OPENED TO A NARROW HALL THAT DEAD-ENDED LEFT AND forced foot traffic right. Jack followed the man in the suit, squeezing between sentries stationed at the door, and the suit man’s bodyguard entourage in turn followed him.

They were a different type, these bodyguards, different from the gumshoes who’d staked out positions at the Savoy in Berlin, different again from the psychos who’d run the snatch-and-grab in Republic Square. They were the type who missed nothing while ignoring everything, slow to engage, because they’d earned their composure, the type Clare would have sent if control truly mattered.

The hall led to an overlarge opening lit by shoddily hung fluorescent tubes, a hub of sorts, with no clear exit, no windows, no obvious doors, but from which several halls branched off. The man took a hard left into the nearest hall, which widened out into several steps that led down to a cavernous room supported by concrete pillars. What might have been a warehouse receiving area in a former life was bare and empty except for the ridiculous juxtaposition of a living room set up in the nearest corner—sofas and tables and wall art against an industrial landscape—as if someone had walked into a furniture showroom, drawn a square around an ensemble, and had the whole thing moved exactly as is, right down to the rugs, vases, and lamps.

The obvious difference was the bottle of Beluga Noble at the table’s center, and the zakuski spread and, less obvious, the diplomatic pouch on the sofa seat, like an ugly stain on the soft blue palette. The man in the suit motioned for Jack to take the oversize chair, as if this was a friendly social event and there weren’t bodyguards posted on the steps, blocking the only way out. “Please,” he said. “Please, sit.”

Jack eyed the plates filled with drinking food and then the bottle.