“Are the boys in position, or are they just sitting on their asses?” She kept her voice low, but her intonation was heated, almost hectoring. “Jesus! There is no excuse for this. This makes us all look bad. Shit, it’s true what they say: when you want a job done right, you gotta do it yourself. I mean, that’s how I’m feeling right now. Whatever happened to team efficiency?”

Another dumb, inanimate slug would shatter another skull, and another life would be stricken, erased, turned into the putrid animal matter from which it had been constituted. That was not progress; it was the very opposite. He cast his mind back to Theo and the others, snuffed out, and for what? Some of the rage that filled him was displaced rage at himself, yes. But what of it? The woman would die—die in a five-million-dollar mountainside estate in Alpine Lombardy, a land she had never seen before in her life. She would die at his hands, and that would be their one moment of true intimacy.

“Where is he? Where? Hell, I can tell you that.” Jessie Kincaid spoke again to her unseen interlocutor, after a period of silence. “You big lummox, you mean you guys really haven’t figured that out? Monaco, man. There’s no doubt in my mind. You know Novak’s got a house there.” Another pause. “Janson didn’t say it in so many words. But I heard him making a joke to his little friend there about playing baccarat—you do the math. Hey, you boys are supposed to be in intelligence, so why don’t you try acting intelligent?”

She was lying to them.

Lying for him.

Janson returned his gun to his holster, and felt flooded, almost light-headed, with relief. The intensity of the emotion surprised and puzzled him. She had been asked for his location, and she had lied to protect him. She had just chosen sides.

“No,” she was saying, “don’t tell anybody I called in. This was a private chat, all right? Just me and you, pookie. No, you can take all the credit, and that’ll be fine with me. Tell ’em, I dunno, tell ’em I’m in a coma somewhere and the Netherlands national health plan is paying for real expensive treatment, because I didn’t have any identity papers on me. Tell ’em that and I bet they won’t be in such a rush to bring me back to the States.”

A few moments later, she clicked off, turned around, and was startled to see Janson in the doorway.

“Who’s ‘pookie’?” he asked, in a bored voice.

“God damn you,” she erupted. “You been spying on me? The famous Paul Janson turns out to be some kind of goddamn Peeping Tom?”

“Came down for some milk,” he said.