Those words made her tentative smile more relaxed: and with Alex in control she wound down through the corridors toward her cardiologist, technician, and radiographer, and felt safe again.

AS CALVIN PASSED THROUGH THE RECEPTION AREA TOWARD THE BREAKFAST room, there was a fragrance of lilies that almost stole your breath and made the wonderful old hotel seem even more luxuriant. He approached the restaurant carrying his pale camel overcoat, fidgeting slightly with one of the large buttons. He saw the reflection of the professor’s head in the glass and thrust a hand into his pocket, then as quickly out again.

“Professor Walters is already at the table, Mr. Petersen. May I take your coat, sir?”

The maître d’ at Claridge’s gave Calvin’s coat to an attendant and then showed him to a table in the corner of the breakfast room. It was occupied by an expensively dressed man of about fifty-five, with a pin-striped shirt and navy woolen jacket, and a cream silk cravat in place of a tie. Calvin could see his cuff links catching the light from a distance away; and now, as they approached, Professor Fitzalan Walters set aside his copy of The New York Times and rose from his chair. He extended one freckled hand to Calvin’s and placed his other hand on his guest’s arm. As his chair was pushed in by a waiter, Calvin was struck again by how considerable a presence he had for such a relatively small man.

“What a pleasure that we could meet while I’m in London, Calvin.” Fitzalan had a deep voice, with the slight Southern American accent that spoke of old money and commanded attention. “Are you going back home for Christmas?”

“I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”