“Peter Novak’s office,” she said. “Where you would surely be meeting Mr. Novak if he were in town—he’d insist on it.” She opened the door and pointed to a canvas on the wall opposite. “That painting is by Van Dyck. Remarkable, don’t you think?” The portrait was of a seventeenth-century nobleman, rendered in a palette of muted browns and blues, yet curiously vivid all the same.

Janson turned on the overhead lights and strode toward the canvas. He peered closely. “Extraordinary,” he said. “He’s one of my very favorite artists, you know. Of course, the artistic heritage of the Czech Republic is illustrious indeed. But, between us, we have nothing like this in Praha.”

He reached into his pocket and, fingering the side buttons of his Ericsson cell phone, he dialed one of the numbers he had preprogrammed into it. This number went to the receptionist’s direct line.

“Would you excuse me?” she said, hearing her phone ring.

“Certainly,” Janson said. As she hastened to her telephone, he scanned the papers that lay neatly stacked on Novak’s desk and credenza. They were from the usual assortment of great and good institutions, with a heavy representation of Dutch ministries. One item of correspondence, however, caused a memory to clang distantly, hazily—a freighter just out of view in foggy weather. Not the brief, innocuous message, but the letterhead. UNITECH LTD. The company name meant something to him—but did it mean something to Paul Janson, corporate security consultant, or to Paul Janson, quondam Consular Operations agent? He wasn’t yet sure.

“Minister Kubelik?” A woman’s voice.

“Yes?” Janson looked up to see a tall blond woman smiling at him.

“I’m Peter Novak’s wife. I’d like to welcome you here on his behalf. Our executive director is still in a meeting with Holland’s ambassador to the United Nations. It won’t be long at all.” She spoke with a neutral American accent.

The woman was beautiful in the Grace Kelly mode, at once voluptuous and patrician. Her frosted, wet-looking lipstick seemed less than businesslike, but it suited her, as did the chartreuse suit that hugged her contours a little more snugly than was strictly necessary.

This was not a woman in mourning. She could not have known. She did not know. Yet how could that be?

Janson strode up to her and bowed slightly. Would a Czech diplomat kiss her hand? He decided that a handshake would suffice. But he could not take his eyes off her. Something about her was familiar. Hauntingly so. The blue-green Côte d’Azur eyes, those long, elegant fingers …

Had he seen her before recently? He racked his brain. Where? In Greece? England? Had it been a fleeting glimpse, enough to register on the subconscious mind only? It was maddening.

“You’re American?” Janson said.

She shrugged. “I’m from a lot of places,” she said. “Like Peter.”