He lowered the phone.

Struggling not to show how agitated he was, he put the phone in his pocket and approached the safe house’s front door. As he pressed the doorbell, he peered up toward where he assumed a concealed camera watched him.

“Simon Childs,” he said. “Cassidy sent me.”

He waited while someone inside compared his face to the image in his electronic file.

A lock buzzed.

He turned the doorknob, entered, and showed his ID.

Thickly carpeted stairs led down to the left and up to the right. A man in a dark sport coat, a white shirt, and a loosened tie studied him from the bottom level. The open coat revealed a pistol in a holster on his belt.

“You looked like that phone call was bad news,” the man said.

“I’m getting married in ten days. The reception’s a logistical nightmare.”

The man nodded sympathetically. “The second time I got married, the caterer had a heart attack two days before the wedding. Cassidy says you might have seen Nick Demidov before.”

“His name isn’t familiar, but his photograph is. I think he’s someone the European task force picked up when I was in London.”

“London? Then he’s lying and he does speak English?”

“That’s one of the things I came to find out.”

He descended the stairs to a room that had a leather sofa and chair with plush cushions that showed no indication of having been sat upon. A coffee table was bare. At the far end, fake logs were stacked in a gas fireplace where blue flames wavered with artificial steadiness.

“Can’t get the chill out of this basement,” the man said.

“You’re here alone?”

He pretended to sound puzzled, when he actually felt relieved.

“Until nine p.m. when my relief checks in. No need for anyone else. The way this place is set up, one agent at a time is all that’s necessary. It’s not as if Demidov’s a heavy hitter and needs protection. But hey, maybe he’ll lead us to somebody big. I’m John Fadiman, by the way.”

They shook hands.

Then Fadiman led him into a room, where several video monitors showed the approaches to the house. Simon noticed a ring of keys and a cell phone next to a half-full coffee cup on a desk. He switched his attention to a glass wall that revealed an adjacent bedroom with little furniture. Wearing a black shirt and trousers, a dark-haired man lay on a narrow bed. His eyes were closed and his hands were folded on his chest. He had a heavy, expressionless face.

“That’s all he’s been doing since we put him in there,” Fadiman said. “Either he needs a lot of sleep, or else he’s been locked up before and knows how to pass the time.”

“That’s the man I saw in London. Are we visible to him?”

“It’s a one-way glass.”

“Then I need to go in there so Demidov can see my face. Once he recognizes me, he won’t be able to keep claiming that all he speaks is Russian.”