“Remember, dear, what they say about the Devil—that his greatest trick was persuading people he didn’t exist. Believe what you like.”

A memory pricked at Janson. He looked at Márta Lang intently, alert to any flicker of weakness. “Alan Demarest—where is he?”

“Here. There. Everywhere. You should call him Peter Novak, though. It’s rude not to.”

“Where, goddammit!”

“Not telling,” she said lightly.

“What does he have over you?” Janson exploded.

“Sad to say, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He owns you somehow.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” she replied witheringly. “Peter Novak owns the future.”

Janson stared. “If you know where he is, then, God help me, I will extract the information from you. Believe this: after a few hours on a Versed-scopolamine drip, you won’t know the difference between your thoughts and your speech. Whatever comes into your head will come out of your mouth. If it’s in your head, we’ll extract it. We’ll extract a lot of garbage, too. I’d rather you came clean without chemical assistance. But one way or another, you will tell us what we want to know.”

“You’re so full of it,” she said, and turned to Jessica. “Hey, back me up here. Can’t I get a little feminine solidarity on this one? Haven’t you heard—sisterhood is powerful.” Then she leaned forward, putting her face only inches from his. “Paul, I’m really sorry about your friends getting blown sky-high off Anura.” She fluttered her fingers and, in a voice that was pure vinegar, added, “I know you were all broken up about your Greek butt-boy.” She loosed a short giggle. “What can I say? Shit happens.”

Janson felt a vein in his forehead throb painfully; he knew his face was mottled with rage. He imagined smashing her face, imagined fracturing her facial bones, a spear hand driving the bones of her nose into her brain. Just as swiftly, he felt the fog of fury recede. He recognized that the point of her needling was to get him to lose control. “I’m not presenting you with three choices,” he said. “Only two. And if you don’t decide, I’ll decide for you.”

“Is this going to take long?” she said.

Janson grew aware of choral music in the background. Hildegard von Bingen. The hairs on Janson’s neck stood erect. “‘The Canticles of Ecstasy,’” he said. “The long shadow of Alan Demarest.”

“Huh? I turned him on to that,” she said, shrugging. “Back when we were growing up.”

Janson stared at her, seeing her as if for the first time. Suddenly, a series of small nagging details snapped into place. The movement of her head, her sudden, bewildering shifts of affect and tone, her age, even certain lines and locutions.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “You’re—”