At dusk another fog rose, slipping in from the Spreewald, invading the suburbs. For a while Gray watched from a window with his third or fourth whisky, but he realized this was not the sort of fog one could capture on canvas. Nor could one capture the restless silence, nor the sky in dull blue, nor, especially, the conflicting emotions.

He took a long time to dress, eventually choosing a necktie that Zelle had given him years earlier. He left his hotel at about nine o'clock, got to Dunbar and Sykes at about ten. They were waiting in that limousine: Sykes rigid behind the wheel, Dunbar studying a road map in the rear. Again a word about Southerland's absence, again the clatter of passing vans and drays.

"I don't suppose we'll have any way of knowing whether or not he'll be armed," Dunbar said.

Gray cleared a circle in the misted glass but saw nothing except the dead street. "Oh, he'll be armed."

"But only for self-protection. Right?"

"I don't read minds."

There was a hip flask, exquisitely tooled in silver, between them on the seat. When Gray had climbed into the rear Dunbar had offered it to him, with what Gray considered a silly reference to the soldier's ration just before battle. He had refused the stuff; Dunbar had taken three or four swigs.

"You don't think he'll bring anyone with him, do you?" Dunbar said suddenly. "I mean, given the circumstances, surely he wouldn't go so far as to . . ."

Gray breathed through clenched teeth. "I should think it's a bit late to worry about that."

Sykes glanced back from the driver's seat to say that it was time.

They drove slowly, and as they did it occurred to Gray that Sykes had never actually been a chauffeur. He might have been a soldier, or a killer, but he was not at ease at the wheel. The back streets were unlit, and twice they had to stop and consult a map. As they neared the canals, the mist became a thick, gelatinous presence from the sewers.

The warehouse lay at the end of a blackened street between a factory and a loading dock. The walls were brick, black with soot. There were odors of fish and creosote. On Dunbar's instruction, Sykes eased the limousine to a stop about fifty yards from the warehouse doors. There was a moon but no lights, and the only sounds were of a creaking barge and old newspapers in the breeze.

"You're certain this is the place?" Dunbar said. Gray nodded.

"Then you had better not keep him waiting."

Gray turned to look at him. "What's going on, Charles?"

Dunbar smiled, avoiding Gray's eyes. "It's simply a matter of form. Southerland and I felt it would be best if you and Sykes went in first and brought him out ... in order to establish a precedent, in order to show him who's in charge." Then, "Well, I can't see why you'd possibly object."