"Go to hell."

As Gray and Sykes stepped out of the limousine, Sykes glanced back once through the windshield to Dunbar, then quickly nodded to Gray.

They walked slowly, keeping to the shadows. The warehouse doors were slightly ajar but there were no lights inside. As they moved closer, Gray caught a glimpse of Sykes moving beside him: shoulders stiff, jaw rigid, one hand locked around the butt of a pistol in the waistband of his trousers. His eyes were fixed on the door, and his face was beaded with perspiration.

They paused just inside the door, peering into the darkness. There were vague forms of packing crates, and ropes suspended from the rafters. A row of windows above threw parallel shafts of light on the brick, but otherwise it was dark.

Gray waited almost a minute before calling out Spangler's name, his voice remote in the silence. He called again, heard only the sounds of scurrying rats. Sykes withdrew the revolver and put it in his coat pocket. Gray called a third time, and then, from the deeper silence: "There's really no need to shout, Mr. Gray."

Spangler appeared by degrees, first as a shadow on the corrugated iron, then as a silhouette. He wore a greatcoat and riding boots. His arms hung at his sides, making sure his hands were visible. Stepping into the shaft of light, he emerged with a quizzical smile. His eyes were on Sykes, and Gray decided he must have seen the gun.

"I don't think I've had the pleasure," he said.

"That's not the man," Gray replied.

"Oh?"

"We thought it would be better if you spoke to him outside."

"Better? You mean safer, don't you? Really, Nicholas, this is hardly a way to start a relationship."

Gray took another step forward, his hands also clearly visible. "It's a small point, and I think we'll be more comfortable. He's got a motorcar."

"I think not. I think I'd actually prefer to speak here."

There were two or three disconnected moments when no one seemed to move . . . except Sykes, sensing something and slowly withdrawing the revolver. Gray saw only a hint of it: the hammer briefly snagging on the lining of the coat. He heard himself shout, No. And then Spangler calling out something to the rafters, where a figure with a rifle had begun to emerge from the blackness. He heard a third voice in German, saw a glint of polished brass. The first shot lifted Sykes into the air, the second tore away the back of his head.

Another disconnected moment or two before Gray stumbled back to the door, one or two more paralyzed seconds looking into Spangler's eyes. He became aware of the others: soldiers among the packing crates, an officer with a megaphone, Sykes twitching in death throes.