Ted looked up into the cold eyes of a heavyset man in uniform. The words were right, but the tone was a hair this side of threatening. Ted focused on the words on the shoulder badge. new york courts. The bailiff was trying to determine whether or not he was a threat. At that moment Ted could not have threatened a kitten.

“Two men assaulted me,” he whispered through gritted teeth.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The bailiff either hadn’t heard or hadn’t understood the words. It did seem incredible to Ted that someone had struck him with such violence in the midst of a crowd and there were no witnesses crying out. The perpetrators had melted away like wraiths.

Ted gave up. “I’m fine, thank you. Low blood sugar.”

“I understand,” the bailiff said. His tone had softened. “Would you like to rest for a minute?” He gestured toward a wooden bench down the corridor.

“No. Thank you. I need to get upstairs. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me give you a hand.” He cleared a path through the throng blocking the elevator—suits made way for the uniform—and made sure Ted got on board. “What floor?”

Ted didn’t like having to take the man’s help but accepted that he needed it. “I’m good,” he said when he was safely in the car. He stabbed a random button while trying to remember where he had told Lester to take the damn filing.

The Russians knew about the filing. The realization had no sooner hit him than he remembered that they also knew his name. More specifically, they had called him “Eddie.” Fear and pain had kept him from registering the real threat. These people knew a lot about him. If Cheryl was somehow involved—and who else called him Eddie?—the Russians would know his address, hangouts, and daily routine, such as it was. They could find him anytime they felt the need to jam somebody in the kidneys, or in the gonads, or upside the head.

Ted didn’t typically get migraines, but something very like one descended on him at that point. The pain was instantaneous and blinding. A massive vise was pressing on his temples. His scalp crawled as if spiders were weaving webs there. His peripheral vision shrank so that the space in front of him—a crowded elevator—appeared through a pixelated tunnel, like a kaleidoscope. He needed air. The doors had opened and were closing again.

“Getting off.” Judging by the snap of heads in his direction, he might have spoken somewhat more loudly than necessary.

A man held the doors. People made way—not reluctantly as before, but scurrying out of the way of the pasty-faced man. Ted stumbled through the crowd. Once clear he rested his forehead against the government-green wall. It felt cool. Ted thought he might survive—if he could somehow get the pace of his heartbeat down to an easy jog.