“Good,” I said. It’s good for officials to know that someone who plays the game is involved.

As the customs agent waved everyone on, the immigration guy led me to their terminal building. Once inside, we walked through the main waiting area, down a hall, to a small office. He opened the door, and waved me in.

There was a desk and two chairs. There was a folder on the desk. The Mormon was sitting in the chair behind the desk.

With a gesture, the Mormon sent the man who’d brought me in away. As the door behind me closed, he said, “Have a seat.”

I said, “What’s your name?”

He thought about that for a second, and said, “Arthur James Thornborough.”

“Are you a Mormon?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Casual Methodist, I guess. And you?”

“I once would have said nothing, but I’ve had encounters with some ancient deities lately.”

“Really?”

“I might be insane.”

“Interesting. You were traveling on a false passport.”

“It was just a ski trip.”

He opened his file. He took out the accident scene photos of Mick McMunchun. He laid them out so I could see them.

“Tragic accident,” I said.

He took out crime scene photos of Owen Cohen.

“Oh, God,” I said, “that’s terrible. Who would do such a thing?”

Then he took out a series of photos of the ice pond. It was a whole action sequence. Grigor jumping in. Me jumping after him. Me climbing out. Grigor not climbing out. They were from a very odd angle. I couldn’t figure it out. How anyone got up that high.

“A drone?” I asked.

“Yes, very good.” Arthur said.

“What now?” I asked.

“Grigor Voloshin,” he said, “was a very dangerous person. Did you know he was on his way to Ashgabat?”

“Turkmenistan. Yes.”

“Do you know why?”

“Not a clue.”

“Nobody said anything about natural gas? Arms? Nationalism for the Russian minority?”

“No. Not a word.”

“Would you tell me if they had?”

“Probably. I don’t see why not.”

“I have you dead to rights with Voloshin’s death.”

“I think it’s already been ruled an accident. I bet the Austrians want to keep it that way. Do you want to send me back there?”

“I have to admit, I still haven’t figured out how you did McMunchun.”

I shrugged. “Accident. Really.”

“And Cohen. I can prove you were in that office.”

“I’m sure you can. But not when he died.”

“I saw you following him from Brooklyn. But I lost you after you crossed the bridge.”

“Maybe I was just going to Manhattan at the same time.”

“The thing is, you’re very, very good at this.”

“At ‘this’? What’s ‘this’?’ ”

“This”—he tapped the McMunchun photos with his forefinger—“This.” Tap. On Owen Cohen. “This.” God drowned from the point of view of a drone.

I said, “Oh.” What else could I say.