Breathing hard, Lang said nothing and did nothing for a long moment, as if torn by indecision. At last, she stood up straight, verifying the position of her weapon with a sidelong glance. “You’re no fun,” she said. The lower part of her face was reddened from where the door had slammed into her. “Don’t you want to even up the odds a little? Make the game interesting?”

Janson advanced toward her, and at the moment when his body was interposed between Márta Lang and Kincaid, Lang’s hand darted out to grab back her weapon. Janson anticipated the move, and he immediately wrenched it from her hands. “A Suomi burp gun. Impressive. You have a license for this toy?”

“You’ve broken into my house,” she said. “Caused grievous bodily injury to my staff. I’d call it selfdefense.”

Márta Lang ran her fingers through her perfectly coifed white hair, and Janson tensed for a surprise, but her hands returned empty. There was something different about her; her speech was flatter, her affect more casual. What did he really know about this woman?

“Don’t waste our time and we’ll try not to waste yours,” Janson said, pressing on. “You see, we already know the truth about Peter Novak. There’s no use in trying to hold out. He’s a dead man. It’s over, dammit!”

“You poor muscle-bound idiot,” Márta Lang said. “You think you’ve got everything figured out. But you thought that before, didn’t you? Doesn’t that make you wonder?”

“Give him up, Márta,” Janson said with gritted teeth. “It’s your only chance. They’ve pulled the plug on him. An executive directive from the President of the United States himself.”

The white-haired woman’s contempt was magnificent. “Peter Novak is more powerful than he is. The U.S. president is only the leader of the free world.” She paused to let it sink in. “Getting the big picture, or are you waiting for it to come out on video?”

“You’re deluded. He’s somehow brought you into his own madness. And if you can’t break free, you’re lost.”