It was not a mistaken sighting, Jessie now knew. A woman matching Janson’s detailed description of Deputy Director Márta Lang had been among the arrivals that morning: a Lincoln Town Car with darkened windows had dropped her off at eight in the morning. In the ensuing hours, there was no sign of her, yet Jessica could not risk leaving her post. Attired as she was, Jessica herself attracted almost no attention, for the city had long since trained itself not to notice such unfortunates in its midst. At intervals, she shuttled between two other wire trash baskets that shared a sight line to the office building on Fortieth Street, but always returned to the one nearest it. About midday, a couple of grounds maintenance people in the bright red outfits of the Bryant Park Business Improvement District had tried to shoo her away, but only halfheartedly: their minimum wages inspired no great exertions on the park’s behalf. Later, a Senegalese street merchant with a folding stand and a portfolio of fake Rolexes tried to set up shop near her. Twice, she “accidentally” stumbled over his display, bringing it crashing to the ground. After the second time, he decided to relocate his business, though not before hurling a few choice epithets at her in his native tongue.

It was nearly six when the elegant, white-haired woman appeared again, striding through the revolving door of the lobby, her face a mask of unconcern. As the woman stepped into the backseat of the long Lincoln Town Car and purred off toward the intersection at Fifth Avenue, Jessica memorized the license plate. Quietly, she radioed Cornelius Eaves, whose vehicle—a yellow taxicab with its OFF DUTY lights on—had been idling in front of a hotel toward the other end of the block.

Eaves did not know the larger purpose of his assignment; he did know enough not to ask whether it was an officially sanctioned job. Jessica Kincaid, for her part, had been stinting with explanation. Were she and Janson pursuing a private vendetta? Had they been assigned to an ultra-secret project requiring the ad hoc enlistment of irregular talent? Eaves, who had been retired from active duty for a few years and was eager to have something to occupy his time, did not know. The only authorization he required was Janson’s personal entreaty—and the look on the young woman’s face: it was the limpid confidence of somebody who was doing what had to be done.

Diving into the backseat of Eaves’s cab, Jessica yanked off her cap, wriggled out of her rags, and changed into ordinary street clothes: pressed chinos, a pastel-colored cotton sweater, penny loafers. She scrubbed the grime off her face with moist towelettes, fluffed her hair vigorously, and after a few minutes was at least vaguely presentable, which is to say, inconspicuous.