Another snort of laughter. “Try it on a nice filet mignon at your hotel. The blade cuts meat just fine.”

Grigor smiled fractionally. “I’ll remember,” he said.

The shopkeeper nodded and opened the door. They both left the little stockroom. Then Grigor turned and carried the carton out to his ride.

It was not at all lightweight.

New Jersey

Musil drove his Acura across the river into New Jersey. It was a slow crawl through heavy traffic and took an hour and twenty minutes. About halfway there he wondered if he could have jogged to Teaneck faster.

Stephen Gelfland owned an ordinary, single-story ranch house on a quiet suburban street. A small square front yard, evergreen shrubs, an attached two-car garage. As he pulled up, Musil noticed a white Kia Sorento in the driveway behind a pearl-blue Toyota sedan. The Sorento had a Pennsylvania license plate and presumably belonged to Gelfland’s cousin.

Musil swung in behind it and parked with his tail end almost sticking out onto the road. He noticed heaps of decaying brown leaves on the driveway and early season grass. Mixed in with them were a few windblown food and candy wrappers and a couple of yellowed, rain-cockled pages from a newspaper. Signs that the place had been vacant since autumn.

No one was in sight.

He left the car, looked around outside the garage a minute and still didn’t see anybody. Then the front door to the house opened. In the entryway was a sandy-haired woman of about forty wearing jeans and a lavender sweater. She gave him a high wave.

Presumably he’d found Clara Hughes.

“Agent Musil.” She came outside. “Nice to meet you.”

He bowed his head slightly. “The same, Ms. Hughes.”

“Please, call me Clara.”

“Clara.” Musil motioned back toward the driveway. “Does the Toyota belong to your cousin?”

“Yes, it’s Steve’s.” She paused. “CloudCable gave him a corporate rental for his training in Massachusetts. They say he drove it up to meet the ship last January.”

“Just before it sailed.”

She nodded. “The car was dropped off at their New Hampshire headquarters. Where the Stalwart was docked.”

Musil gestured toward the Toyota. “I wonder why he didn’t pull into the garage. He would have known he was leaving it here for quite a while.”

“All winter,” Clara said. “The car isn’t even two years old. But Steve didn’t bother to lock it up.”

Musil smoothed his beard but said nothing.

“Would you care to come in?” she asked. “I can give you a look around.”

He nodded and followed her through the door.