There was an old building on Central Avenue, with windows soundproofed against the roar of turbo-fans. Whenever the wind was from the southwest and inbound flights were diverted across the city, the airliners would rattle the panes. But perhaps there were other reasons for the soundproofing.

Two men sat in a second-floor office, Matthias leaning back behind a desk and Roland perched uncomfortably close to the edge of a sofa in front of it.

“Consignment F-12 is on schedule,” said Matthias. “It says so right here on the manifest. Isn’t that right?”

He fixed Roland with a cold stare.

“I inspected it myself,” said Roland. Despite his stiff posture and the superficial appearance of unease, he sounded self-confident. “Contractor Wolfe has the right attitude: businesslike attention to detail. They vet their workers thoroughly.”

“Well.” Matthias leaned across his desk. “It’s a pity the cargo is laid over in Svarlberg while a storm blows itself out, isn’t it?”

“Damn.” Roland looked annoyed. “That’s recent, I take it?”

“Two days ago. I did a spot inspection myself. Impressed Vincenze to carry me across for the past week. I think you’d better warn Wolfe that F-12 is going to be at least four days late, possibly as much as seven.”

“Damn.” A nod. “Okay, I’ll do that. Usual disclaimers?”

“It’s in the warranty small-print.” Neither of them cracked a smile. The Clan provided its own underwriting service—one that more than made up for the usurious transport charges it levied. The customer code-named Wolfe would damn well swallow the four-to seven-day delay and smile, because the cargo would arrive, one way or another, which was more than could be said for most of the Clan’s competitors. If it didn’t, the Clan would pay up in full, at face value, no question. “We have a reputation to guard.”

“I’ll get onto it.” Roland pulled out a small notebook and scribbled a cryptic entry in it. He caught Matthias staring. “No names, no pack drill.” He tucked the notebook away carefully.

“It’s good to know you can keep a secret.”

“Huh?”

“There’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.” He didn’t smile. “Look at this.” Reaching into a desk drawer, Matthias pulled out a slim file binder and slid it across the desk. Roland rose and collected it, sat down, opened it, and tensed, frowning.

“Page one. Our prodigal dresses for dinner. Nice ass, by the way.”

A glare from the sofa. If looks could kill, Matthias would be ashes blowing on the wind.