“I am going to walk out the door in a minute,” she said tensely, hating herself for her own determination, “and we are not going to see each other again until next May, probably. At least, not in the next few days or weeks. We both need time out. I need to get my head together and see if I can flush the bastards who’re trying to kill me. You need to think about who you are and who I am and where we’re going before we take this any further—and you need to find whoever’s wormed their way into Angbard’s confidence and whoever shot Olga.”

“I don’t care about Olga! I care about you!” he snapped.

“That is part of the problem I’ve got with you right now,” she said coldly, and headed for the door.

A thought occurred to her as she pulled the door open. “Roland?”

“Yes?” He sounded coldly angry.

“Tomorrow I’m going to get lost again, probably until Beltaigne. Keep checking your voice mail—there’s no need to hold this room any longer.”

“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said quietly. She shut the door behind her and departed, her heart infinitely heavier than it had been when she arrived.

Ring ring. There was a breeze blowing, and the park was bitterly cold: Miriam sat hunched at one end of a bench.

“Hello? Lofstrom Associates, how may I help you?”

“This is Miriam. I want to talk to Angbard.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Lofstrom is unavailable right now—”

“I said I’m Miriam. If you don’t know the name, check with someone who does. You have five minutes to get Angbard on the line before the shit hits the fan.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Please hold—”

beep beep beep

“Hello?” A different voice, not Angbard’s, came on the line.

“To whom am I speaking?” Miriam asked calmly.

“Matthias. And you are?”

“Miriam Beckstein. I want to talk to Angbard. Right now. This call has been logged by the front desk.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s in a meeting. If—”

“If I don’t get him on the line right now I’ll make sure the Boston Globe receives a package that will blow your East Coast courier line wide open. You have sixty seconds.” Her fingers tensed on the handset.

“One moment.”

Click.

“Angbard here. What’s this?”

“It’s me,” said Miriam. “Sorry I had to strong-arm my way past your mandarins, but it’s urgent.”

“Urgent?” She could almost hear the eyebrows rising. “I’ve never seen Matthias so disturbed since—well. Unpleasant events. What did you tell him?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Miriam leaned back, felt the cold bench bite through her coat, sat up straight again. “Listen. I told you something about my mother. That if anything happened to her I would be really pissed off.”

“Yes?” Polite interest colored Angbard’s voice.