“Tell me what it is,” he said. “I’ll tell you if I’m game.”

Musil nodded.

“Every morning when you wake up, I want you think of five things you’re grateful for. Only five. Before you even get out of bed.”

Ki was quiet a bit. “Can I make it two?”

“Five.”

“Three?”

“Five.”

“Any other requirements?”

“That’s it.”

Ki said, “When would I kick off this New Age dharmic self-help regime?”

“Tomorrow. Officially. But you can start practicing right away.”

Ki finished what was left of the chicken wing and dabbed his fingers on his napkin.

“OK, dude,” he said. “I got this.”

Musil smiled. “Excellent,” he said.

They sat there eating in silence a while. The waiter came around with a tray of samosas and dropped one into each of their dishes. The man in the prayer niche bowed forward in prostration, his forehead touching the rug, then gradually straightened up. After a minute he put on his shoes and joined his friends at the long cafeteria table.

It was now about a quarter to one, with the restaurant’s daily wave of office workers flowing through its door, people of every skin tone and discernible ethnicity. Musil took a moment to soak it all in. The atmosphere was warm and accepting and everything he loved about the city.

He looked at Ki and said, “My friend, we need to do this more often.”

“So we always agree before life gets in the way.” Ki shrugged. “I’m digging the moment. My brother Jot and great eats.”

Musil nodded.

“A nice start,” he said.

Ki nodded.

“Better chow down. Lunchtime’s almost over,” he said, and shoveled more food into his mouth.

Grigor hovered near the taxi stand for several minutes after the double-parked cabbie entered Share Punjabi. Then he stepped into the street and went around the front of his vehicle to the driver’s door.

The van was an older model Toyota, which was one reason Grigor had chosen it. Most new vehicles with keyless entry systems were equipped with anti-hacking systems. But that had been far less common just three or four years back.

Standing outside the door, he reached into his pocket for the twenty-thousand-dollar transponder Kosov had included with his mission kit. It was the same size and shape as the bug detector but with a plain black plastic casing. The only external feature was a small button on one side.

Grigor held it between himself and the door and thumbed down the button. The restaurant was a hole-in-the-wall, only a few hundred feet away, and not very deep. He was betting the cabbie and his entry fob were well within range.

He was right. It took all of a second for his transponder to intercept, boost and relay the fob’s coded signal to a receiver inside the van.

A glance through the door’s tinted window and Grigor saw its lock knob slide up.