“You’re not exactly the way I’d pictured you,” she said. “You don’t look like a …” Conscious of his frankly hostile stare, she decided against finishing the sentence. “Mr. Janson, we really don’t have time for this.”

“I don’t look like a what?” he said, biting off the words. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, but I’m not even going to list the infractions of protocol here. I’m not going to ask how you got my cell phone number or how you learned whatever you think you’ve learned. But by the time we’re finished here, I’d better know everything I want to know.” Even if she were a private citizen legitimately seeking his services, the public nature of the contact was completely inappropriate. And the use of a field legend of his, albeit a long-disused one, was a cardinal violation.

“You’ve made your point, Mr. Janson,” she said. “My approach was, let’s agree, ill advised. You’ll have to forgive me—”

“I will? That’s a presumption.” He inhaled, detected a faint fragrance about her: Penhaligon’s Jubilee. Their eyes met, and Janson’s anger diminished somewhat when he saw her expression, mouth drawn with anxiety, gray-green eyes filled with grim determination.

“As I say, we have very little time.”

“I have all the time in the world.”

“Peter Novak doesn’t.”

Peter Novak.

The name delivered a jolt, as it was meant to. A legendary Hungarian financier and philanthropist, Novak had received a Nobel Peace Prize the previous year for his role in conflict resolution around the world. Novak was the founder and director of the Liberty Foundation, which was devoted to “directed democracy”—Novak’s great passion—and had offices in regional capitals through Eastern Europe and other parts of the less developed world. But then Janson had reasons of his own to remember Peter Novak. And those reasons constituted a debt to the man so immense that Janson had occasionally experienced his gratitude as a burden.

“Who are you?” Janson demanded.

The woman’s gray-green eyes bored into him. “My name is Márta Lang, and I work for Peter Novak. I could show you a business card, if you thought that would be helpful.”

Janson shook his head slowly. Her business card would provide a meaningless title, identifying her as some sort of high-ranking employee of the Liberty Foundation. I work for Peter Novak, she had said, and simply from the way she spoke the words, Janson recognized her type. She was the factotum, the point person, the lieutenant; every great man had one. People like her preferred the shadows, yet wielded great, if derivative, power. From her name and the barest trace of an accent, it was evident she was Hungarian, like her employer.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Janson said. His eyes narrowed.