Alex blinks again. He said the necessary abstract reasoning skills for magic, he realizes. Kid’s stuff. The flash of insight is devastating: All I need is an entrypoint and I can probably figure this stuff out for myself . . . “Yes, of course.” He rubs his hands together. They’re very cold, and he’s been feeling hungry pretty much continuously ever since that Howard guy zapped him with the taser, but for the first time in days he barely notices the discomfort. “I’m ready for the tests, Mr. Paulson. Bring them on.”

• • •

“I CAN’T BELIEVE WHAT THAT BITCH DID!”

“Which bitch? Or witch bitch? Are we still talking about Emma Dearest?”

Oscar fumes quietly in one corner of the black leather sofa in the living room of the hotel suite. “Fucking bitch.”

“You’re the one who’s always telling everyone to quantify.” Mhari is coolly unsympathetic. She walks over to the sideboard and twists off the cap of the complimentary bottle of pinot noir, pours two generous glasses, and carries them across to the sofa. Her heels sink into the thick carpet; she hands one of the glasses to Oscar, then carefully kicks off her shoes. “What are your losses?”

“Which ones?” He laughs bitterly for a moment. “Nine point two million down on trading as of close today. We can probably still make it up this quarter if I can get us up and running again by the end of next month, but that all depends on having a full hand of pigs sniffing for truffles, doesn’t it? And that bitch intends to keep us on a tight leash, I’m sure of it.” He looks morose. “There goes my end-of-year target. I’ll be lucky to get a bent paper clip and a shirt button for a bonus. You, too, for that matter.”

Mhari sits down next to him, smoothing her pencil skirt. She sips at the wine, pulls a face: it tastes flat, lifeless and flavorless even though it’s nearly the color of venous blood. “Remember why we’re doing it.”

“Remind me again?”

“You need one of these.” She puts her glass down on the coffee table, then pops her clutch open and pulls out a slim wallet. Flips it open and shows him a photo-ID card within. “A warrant card. This is mine.”

“But that’s—” Oscar pauses thoughtfully. “A warrant card?”