Demarest’s words of counsel—echoing from another age—came to him now: Can’t see a way out? Take the time to see things differently. See the two white swans instead of the one black one. See the slice of pie instead of the pie with the slice missing. Flip the Necker cube outward instead of inward. Master the gestalt. It will make you free.

He closed his eyes for a few seconds. He had to think as they had. Exposure and publicity, they saw, could be the most effective shields of clandestinity—which was a logic that Janson himself would have to embrace. A stealthy entrance was what they were anticipating, what they would be well protected from. He would not arrive stealthily, then. He would arrive as conspicuously as possible, and at the front door. This operation called not for discretion but for brazenness.

Janson surveyed the balled-up papers on the floor near the pastels. “Got a newspaper?”

Cooper padded over to the corner and triumphantly returned with a copy of the latest De Volkskrant. The front page was smeared with paints and pastels.

“Anything English-language?”

“Dutch papers are in Dutch, man,” he answered in a cannabis croak. “They’re fucked-up that way.”

“I see,” Janson replied. He scanned the headlines, and his knowledge of English and German cognates allowed him to get the gist of most. He turned the page, and a small article caught his eye.

“Here,” Janson said, tapping it with a forefinger. “Could you translate this one for me?”

“No sweat, man.” Cooper looked up for a moment, gathering his powers of concentration. “Not the jukebox selection I’d have gone for. Now wait a minute—didn’t you tell me your mother’s Czech?”

“Was. She’s dead.”

“Put my foot in it, didn’t I? That’s awful. Was it, like, a sudden thing?”

“She died when I was fifteen, Barry. I’ve had some time to adjust.”

Cooper paused for a moment, digesting the fact. “That’s cool,” he said. “My mom passed last year. Couldn’t even go to the goddamn funeral. Tore me up. They’d clap irons on me in customs, so, like, what would be the point? Tore me up, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Janson said.