"Hit some traffic?" Qurban asked.

Martin sped up. The car behind matched his speed, an old Lincoln Continental or a Grand Marquis. The type of car only old men drove these days. It was as if the car had attached itself to his rear bumper.

"Some asshole on my tail," he said distractedly. "Road's empty, I don't know why he doesn't just—"

"Oh no."

"It's not Barclay."

But that was exactly what he'd been dreading: that Barclay had caught up to him in a moment of distraction. That he'd run him off the road and fulfill his promise, strangling him to death with his own severed testicles. He wasn't even sure such a thing was possible, but he didn't want to be first to find out.

"Don't be an idiot," he told himself. Of course, it wasn't possible.

"Idiot? Why? What are you doing?"

"I'm gonna flag him past."

"Are you crazy? What if it's him?"

"It's not him." Martin rolled down his window. He eased off the gas and threw out his left arm, waving for the driver to pass.

"What's happening?"

The driver fell back, swerving back and forth, big black tires spinning on the snowy road.

"Relax, Qurban. You're making me crazy as catshit."

"'Crazy as catshit'? Another silly Americanism. Don't make jokes, Martin, this is serious business."

The Lincoln jerked out into the other lane. The engine roared as it crept up alongside the Lexus. The passenger window zipped down and the driver, a bald man creeping toward old age, duded-up in a hooded winter coat, threw Martin the middle finger before ripping by, tires spitting clods of gray slush.

Martin relaxed his grip on the steering wheel and slumped back a little in his seat. He let the speedometer drop into the low 40s.

"Martin? Are you dead?"

He jumped at Qurban's voice. His shoulder caught on the seatbelt, tearing into his skin. The agent sounded terrified. As if his one and only meal-ticket had just driven off the road in a fiery crash, though he had several high-profile clients.

"Please tell me you're not dead."

"Jesus, Qurban! You would've heard something if I was dead, wouldn't you?"

"Not if he used a silenced pistol. Or what if the car was a distraction, and the real Barclay was crouched in your backseat waiting to spring his trap?"

"I'm hanging up now."

"Hey, these are great ideas I'm firing at you, Martin. Don't discount them. Let's do lunch when you get back to the city. The Writing Room? My treat."

"Why the hell not? Your optimism always puts me in a sunny mood."

His keycard was missing.

He kept it in his wallet, nestled behind a thick stack of business cards from people he barely remembered. Easy enough to slip out of his pocket and swipe at the door, the elevator.

But it wasn't there. The business cards were, but the keycard was gone.

Must've fallen out somewhere.