He pulled the door open. No one on the street took any notice. He was a taxi driver getting into his vehicle, part of the scenery, an invisible man.

Sliding behind the wheel, Grigor adjusted the seat to give himself some leg room, stepped on the brake and pushed the Start button. The engine awoke with a sigh.

In the Share Punjabi, Musil glanced toward the door at the men and women threading in from the sidewalk. It was almost lunchtime for the office crowd. The restaurant was getting noisier as it filled up.

“Man,” Ki said, “those are some blue-ribbon champion loud asses.”

“Or possibly we’re just quiet.”

Ki looked at him. “There you go doing it again.”

“There I go doing what again?”

“Always seeing the best in things.”

Musil shrugged. “Why not?” he said. “They seem happy. I like to see happy people. It’s better than seeing sad ones.”

Ki paused with his spoon over his dessert dish. “You’ve got a point there.”

Musil plucked their check off the table. It was almost one; they were running late.

“Finish up,” he said. “I’ll take care of this so we can get back to headquarters.”

The cabbie named Abdul speared a sugary ball of gulab jamun with his fork. To his great joy and satisfaction, he had found a huge hot tray of samosas at the buffet today...as well as this, his favorite dessert.

He took a huge bite, pushed the rest into his mouth and made a contented sound in his throat. Then he looked across the table at his cousin. Haram was reaching into his pants for his wallet.

“Going already? What’s the hurry?”

Haram slipped a few bills from the wallet, leaving them on the table as a tip.

“Hurry?” he said. “I’ve been here over an hour. It’s getting late!”

Abdul had to admit it was and nodded in reluctant agreement. He would need to move his double-parked van so Haram could pull out of his spot at the taxi stand.

He glanced over at the cashier. The only person near the counter was a guy in a black turban, and he seemed to have already taken care of his check. Abdul thought he might be waiting for somebody.

He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair, thinking he might as well pay before he got stuck there in a long line.

“I’ll leave with you,” he said to his cousin.

Grigor checked the dash clock. It read two minutes past one, and Musil and the analyst had not yet come out of the restaurant.

They were taking longer than expected.