“My contact in Ankara woke me up. So I figured I’d wake you up. Time for Farmer Dave to scatter some cracked corn for the chickens. In fact, you probably should’ve been out there an hour ago, you lazy son of a bitch.”

Gurney was accustomed to Hardwick’s unusual approach to business conversations, and generally ignored the ritual abuse. “Your Ankara guy is with Interpol?”

“So he says.”

“What did he have for you?”

“A few tidbits. We get what we get. Goodness of his heart.”

“What did his good heart have for you?”

“You got time for this? You sure you don’t need to go do something for those chickens?”

“Chickens are a lovely addition to the rural life, Jack. You ought to get yourself a few.”

Embracing Hardwick’s tangent had the odd effect of getting him back on point.

“Tidbit number one. About ten years ago, the forces of good had one of the top bad guys in Corsica by the short hairs—had him looking at a hard twenty in a shithole prison—and they managed to turn him. Deal was, if he put the finger on some business colleagues the forces of good would put him in witness protection instead of the shithole prison. This plan did not work out well. About a week into the deal, the head of the witness protection operation received a box in the mail. What to take a stab at what was in the box?”

“Depends on how big a box we’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well, let’s say it was a lot bigger than would be needed if they were mailing his dick. So what do you think it was?”

“Just a wild guess, Jack, but I’d say if the box was big enough to hold a head, then it was probably his head in there. Am I right?”

The silence on the other end was answer enough.

Gurney went on. “And this is just another wild guess, but I’d say there were some nails hammered into his—”

“Yeah, yeah, all right, Sherlock. One for you. Let’s go on to story number two. You ready? You don’t need to piss or anything?”

“Ready.”

“Eight years ago, a member of the Russian Duma, a very connected multimillionaire, former KGB, made a trip to Paris. For his mother’s funeral. The mother lived in Paris because her third husband was French, she loved it there, she wanted to be buried there. And guess what happened?”

“The Duma guy got popped in the cemetery?”

“On his way out the door of the Russian Orthodox church next to the cemetery. Dead-on head shot—eye shot to be precise.”

“Hmm.”

“And there were a couple of other interesting details. Wanna guess?”

“Tell me.”

“Cartridge was a .220 Swift.”

“And?”

“And no one heard what direction the shot came from.”

“A suppressor?”

“Probably.”

Gurney smiled. “And firecrackers?”

“You got it, ace.”