“One thing you don’t have to worry about with these guys is your conscience,” Lionel said. “They’re assholes, major league. They call themselves the Couple.” Two photographs appeared, side by side, a man and a woman, both good-looking and in their early thirties, evidently taken from some distance away with a long-range lens. “They’re manipulators. They work behind the scenes, messing around with the civilians. They get off on it; it’s all a big game to them.”

Quentin frowned. He’d heard about magicians who did that: competed with each other to move the stock market, throw elections, start wars, choose popes. The mundane world was a big chessboard to them. Supposedly the whole electoral debacle of 2000 was mostly a shoving match between two magicians who were trying to settle a bet.

“How are we going to find them?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I still don’t understand why you want this thing,” Plum said.

“You don’t have to,” the bird said. “We are not paying you to understand.”

“Well, no. I guess not. It all seems kind of sketchy though.”

Betsy cackled.

“Sketchy! I love that. You’re talking to a bird in an airport Marriott.”

Betsy had a point. Quentin badly wanted to get Plum alone and ask her why she was doing this and what she knew about it and if she was all right. He was worried about her, and what’s more he needed an ally, and she was the likeliest candidate. Betsy picked up the phone and began whispering confidingly to room service.

“You’re sure we don’t need more people,” he said. “What about a psychic? A healer?”

“I am sure.”

“When do you expect this all to happen?” Pushkar asked. “How soon?” Of them all he looked the least like a master thief. He didn’t look like a magician at all. Maybe it was camouflage; he certainly seemed to be the most comfortable with the whole situation.

“We don’t know,” Lionel said.

“Yes, but weeks? Months? I must notify my family.” He was also the only one of them wearing a wedding ring.

“I am not living in Newark Airport Marriott for months.” Betsy broke off her phone conversation. “FYI. Or weeks. Or one week singular. The only natural fibers in my room are the hairs in the bathtub.”

“We’ll tell you as soon as we know.”

“So to recap,” Quentin said. “Two bad people—known killers who are, with respect, much scarier than we are—have a suitcase somewhere on the eastern seaboard, precise location unknown, contents unknown, under an incorporate bond. And we are going to take it away from them.”

“We have the numbers,” the bird said. “And the element of surprise.”

“If this works I for one will be very surprised,” Pushkar said cheerfully. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”