“When they’re talking in English, Barry, you actually don’t need to translate,” Janson said. He turned to the salesman. “I assume you take cash. If you can do up the cuffs right now, you’ve got a sale. If not, not.”

“Well, we have a fitter here. But the tailoring is normally done elsewhere. I could have it sent by courier to you tomorrow … .”

“Sorry,” Janson said, and turned to leave.

“Wait,” the salesman said, seeing his commission on a substantial sale evaporate. “We can do it. Just let me have a talk with the fitter, and give us ten minutes. If I have to walk it across the street, I’ll see that it’s done. Because, how do you say it in the States, the customer is always right.”

“Words to gladden a Yank’s heart,” Janson said.

“Indeed, we know this about you Americans,” the salesman said carefully. “Everywhere we know this.”

Washington, D.C.

The large man with the maroon tie flagged the taxicab at the corner of Eighteenth and M Streets, near a bar-and-grill with a neon sign in the window advertising a carbonated beverage. The cabdriver wore a turban and favored public radio. His new passenger was a well-dressed man, a little wide around the waist, thick around the haunches. He could bench-press three hundred pounds, but he also liked his beer and his beef, and didn’t see why he needed to change his habits. He was good at what he did, had never had any complaints, and it wasn’t as if he moonlighted as a catalog model.

“Take me to Cleveland Park,” he said. “Four thirty Macomb Street.”

The Sikh driver repeated the address, jotted it down on his clipboard, and they set off. The address turned out to be an out-of-business supermarket, boarded up and bleak.

“Are you sure this is it?” the driver asked.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “Actually, would you mind driving into the parking lot and around the back? I’ve got to pick up something.”

“No problem, sir.” As the cab eased around the low brick-and-glass building, the passenger’s heart started to beat harder. He had to do this without making a mess. Anybody could do this. But he was someone who could do it neatly.

“This is great,” he said, and sat forward. In a lightning-fast motion, he lowered the garrote over the driver’s head and pulled it tight. The Sikh emitted a faint rasp of escaped breath; his eyes widened, and his tongue lolled out. Unconsciousness would come quickly, the passenger knew, but he could not stop there. Another ten seconds of maximum pressure, and the anoxia would result in permanent respiratory cessation.