“I’ve heard a lot of things, good and bad, about him,” said Virtue, “but I never heard anyone call him a fool before.”

“That’s because most people were afraid of him.”

“Why did you kill him?”

“He proposed an alliance. I refused. He threatened me.” He smiled mirthlessly. “That was foolish.”

“You killed him because he threatened you?”

“You doubtless feel it would have been more sporting to wait until he’d taken a few swings at my head with that metal fist of his?” suggested the Angel.

“How do you know he wasn’t bluffing?”

“I don’t. But when a man takes a position, he must be prepared to live—or die—with the consequences of his actions. Giles Sans Pitié threatened to kill me. There was only one possible consequence.”

“How did you kill him?” she asked curiously.

“Efficiently,” he replied. “Now reach into your satchel and turn your recorder off. We’re supposed to be discussing Cain, not creating a biographical feature on me.”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said nonchalantly while deactivating the recorder.

The Angel poured himself another glass of wine as the four cardplayers silently left the tavern.

“What was Cain’s reaction when he found out that he would have to confront Altair of Altair?”

“He wasn’t scared, if that’s what you mean,” said Virtue.

“That wasn’t what I meant. Any man who’s been in our profession as long as Cain has learned to master his fear.” The Angel leaned forward slightly. “Was he excited?”

“Not much excites him. Resigned is the word I’d use.”

“What a pity.”

“Why? Does killing people excite you?”

“Killing most people is just a job to be done as quickly and efficiently as possible,” said the Angel. “But killing someone like Altair of Altair...” His face came alive. “The highest levels of competition in any field of endeavor are indistinguishable from art—and I find art exciting.”

“Then that’s why you’re after Santiago?” asked Virtue. “Because he affords you the greatest competition?”

He shook his head. “I am hunting Santiago because I need the reward. The challenge he presents is merely an added bonus.”

“Come on,” said Virtue skeptically. “I know your record. Do you really expect me to believe that you’re after still more money?”

“What you believe is a matter of complete indifference to me,” replied the Angel.

“But you’ve made tens of millions of credits!” she persisted.

“My creditors have expensive tastes,” he said.

Suddenly his attention was taken by a small, portly, balding, red-faced man who cautiously entered the tavern. The man looked around uneasily, saw the Angel, and walked over to the table.

“Mr. Breshinsky?” said the Angel.

The man nodded, sweat dripping off his face as he did so. “I was told you wanted to see me,” he said in a wary voice.

“You were also told what information I needed.”