She took out another cigarette, offered him one. She lit them both with a lighter that looked as if it belonged on the Titanic. It was tiny, gold, and complicated. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it had blown up in her face.

“Lemme see that.”

She handed it to him.

“How old is this?”

“I bought it in a shop. I thought it was cute.”

“Well, it could be dangerous.”

She tried to recall how long she’d had the damn thing. Seventy, eighty years, at least. She’d never had occasion to get a new one. She took the lighter back. “It’s fine.”

“I’m gonna get you a real lighter.”

“It’s fine!”

“No, I’d like to. I’d really like to.” He’d go to Bloomingdale’s, spend fifty bucks. This lady had to be impressed. He could not let her slip through his fingers.

She looked at him out of lowered eyelids. There was even a little hint of Asia in her miraculous face. He loved the way Asian women looked; they were just so damn beautiful. She was more beautiful.

He just plain wanted to kiss her. But how did he get there? Maybe she’d drink with him. He said, “Listen, lemme buy you one a these Cordiers—what are they—hey, this is great vodka. And coming from me, that’s high praise.”

How pathetic he was. For the moment, his attraction to her was pushing his fanaticism aside. If she kissed him, she wondered, would it draw him closer or scare him away?

“What do you actually do for a living?”

What was this, he wondered. Was she evaluating him? What if he told her he was CIA? Sometimes that was a major turn-on; sometimes they hated it. Usually, they thought you were a complete asshole.

“What I really do is—I’m a—well, I’m not a reporter.”

“I know you’re not a reporter, and I’m getting kind of pissed off, since you won’t show me any kind of credentials and I’m still waiting.”

“You’re waiting, and I’m gonna—well, this is not kosher at all. This is really against regs—” “You are a cop. I thought you were.”

“No, no.” He pulled out his wallet, opened it to his ID card.

Miriam took the wallet, looked at the card. She thought that it appeared entirely legitimate, and it was certainly not a good piece of news. Her opposition was apparently governmental.

She memorized the card, and the information on the driver’s license, and the number on the one credit card that was visible.

“Are you offended?”

“I’m curious. I mean, this is—it’s so weird. What the hell was Ellen Wunderling really up to, that she rates attention from you people?” She motioned to Bill, who gave him a fresh drink—lots of vodka, less ice. “I mean, this vampire thing seems like something pretty stupid for the CIA to take an interest in.”

“What if I told you it wasn’t stupid at all?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say. But I wouldn’t be real interested, either.”