Muir listened to the approach of heels clicking on the marble tiles of the hotel lobby. They were sitting at a table in the Elephant Bar. It was eleven in the morning and they were alone in the bar, which was closed. But that was the reason Condley had asked Archer to meet them there.

“It could be a woman in high heels,” reasoned Muir.

“No, Professor, a woman in high heels walks faster—click click click, you know, because she’s up on her toes. It’s a man.”

“Bets,” said Muir.

“You buy beer tonight.”

“Only if we go back to the Cezanne.”

Condley grinned indulgently. “You liked that place.”

“Frog was a very sweet little woman.” Muir caught himself. “Okay, I liked her. But only as a friend. Somebody to talk to, you understand.”

“A window into the culture, so to speak,” said Condley.

“Precisely,” said the professor. “An anthropological discovery.”

“Someone to be studied close-up, as it were.”

“Brandon, you know I’m all talk.”

Archer turned in to the bar, dressed in his usual suit and tie, looking frazzled and carrying his briefcase. Condley exultantly turned to Muir. “I win.”

“So you’re telling me I have to go back to that bar tonight?”

“If you pay.”

“Better leave Van back here at the hotel,” winked Muir. “Your friend Simolzak plays a very fast hand.”

The two men stood, greeting Archer. From the stiffness of his expression and the abrupt manner in which he shook their hands, it was clear that the CIA agent was not very happy to be seeing them. He nodded curtly to them, taking a chair at the table and immediately putting his briefcase on his lap. He avoided their eyes as he opened it.

“Sorry to be late, gentlemen. It took me an hour to get here in the traffic.”

“We could have saved you a trip. I told you I’d come to the embassy.”

“Mister Condley, what I definitely do not need right now is for you to show up at the embassy. You’re on your own here, I emphasized that yesterday.”

“Whoa,” said Condley, surprised at Archer’s tone. “Easy, there. I just asked for some help.”

“Sorry,” said Archer. “You’ve made things a little tense over at the embassy right now.”

“Me?” said Condley, folding his hands below his chin and peering studiously at the CIA agent. “Or Andrew Brandywine?”

“A very poetic name,” nodded Hanson Muir. “Andy. Brandy. Wine. In fact, it sounds totally made up to me.”

Archer pulled out a folder and put his briefcase on the floor. He had a sour look on his face, as if he’d just finished a glass of buttermilk. He held the folder close to his chest, as if he were playing a poker hand, flipping through a sheaf of pages, grimacing here and there, and then finally looked back up at Condley.