“Good morning, Mr. Berman,” said Pia brightly, appearing in the open door into his inner office. “I hope it’s not too early to come and see you.”

“It’s never too early for a pleasant surprise such as this. To what do I owe the pleasure?” To Berman she never had looked quite so good. He found her unbelievably alluring. “Come in! Please. Sit down!” He pointed toward a leather couch, while clearing away some papers that littered its cushions.

“I wanted to thank you for having George and me over to dinner the other night. We enjoyed ourselves immensely, particularly me. I’m afraid George ended up drinking more than he should have. Anyway, thank you.”

“And you wanted to come and thank me at six-fifteen in the morning? Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture.” Berman was amused—he couldn’t imagine this was the reason Pia wanted to talk with him.

“I know you come in early, and I thought it might be easier . . .”

“. . . if Whitney and or Mariel wasn’t around?” Berman’s imagination began running away with itself.

“Well, since you mention it, yes,” Pia said, smiling. She felt transparent but forged ahead.

“Miss Spallek can be a little . . .” Berman let Pia finish his sentence.

“. . . possessive?”

“That’s a good description. But don’t let it bother you. Please, sit down!” Berman again gestured to a couch positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a Japanese rock garden. He patted one of the cushions with an open palm as if Pia needed further direction.

Pia ventured into the room, checking out the memorabilia, including what was labeled as the horns of several different types of African gazelle. The place oozed of a stereotypical, old-school masculinity that she thought had died with Hemingway. Pia sat down where Berman had indicated. She was inwardly surprised and relieved at the apparent ease with which she seemed to string Berman along. She was pleased that men like Berman were so predictable.

Pia wondered whether she could simply drop the pretense and just go ahead and ask about the Chinese government runner. Just as quickly, she thought better of it. Her intuition was telling her that Berman would most likely not tell her anything. In her mind’s eye she remembered the number tattooed on the runner’s forearm. There was something unnerving about it when she had seen it, and it jarred her again now that she recalled it.

“Mariel might be possessive,” added Berman, “but she has a good heart and she’s loyal. What I’m trying to say is that she is a terrific lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant? That’s a curious choice of words,” said Pia.

“Can I offer you an espresso?” Berman questioned while pointing toward a modern machine built into the mahogany paneling.