His own personal assistant, Trevor Cavandish, minced into his office, a frown on his face. A dapper little man, maybe five and a half feet in lifts, he was dressed in his habitual too-tight Savile Row suit, a frown on his face. He was older than Henri, at least sixty, and he dyed his hair black as midnight, reminding Henri of a manager for a second-rate cabaret on the Left Bank. Still, he was useful, had the brain of a chess master who saw twelve moves ahead.

“Oui, Trevor? Qu’est-ce qui se passe?”

Trevor knew his boss spoke French only to remind him a Frenchman ruled his life—Henri spoke only minimal French—as a point of pride. Because Trevor was very well compensated, he let it go. His status-conscious boss didn’t know Trevor had been born in Liverpool to two very common parents named Smythe, though he claimed Mayfair in London. He said smoothly, in his carefully learned Oxford Brit, “You are aware the CIA agent, Olivia Hildebrandt, killed Hasid at her house last night.”

“Of course I know. Claude called me, whining.”

“Yes, well, he will arrive within the hour. He wishes to explain what happened to you personally, which, I imagine, will find no favor.”

Henri said, “You of all people know I despise failure. He knows quite well what this could mean. It’s a fine kettle of fish, isn’t that what you English say? I’ve decided to send René to straighten things out.”

“René will not be happy. He enjoys his current mistress in Cannes.”

René had always been a vicious creature who wallowed in death and mayhem. “I hope he doesn’t hurt her since he takes after the old man.” Henri shrugged. “He will do as he’s told.” René was many things, but he understood necessity and financial recompense. He would clean up the mess Claude left in the United States. “I will deal with our clients.”

Trevor knew Henri preferred leaving any killing he needed done to his vicious younger brother. Trevor hoped René would never be sent to visit him.

“We must move quickly. Get René on the phone, Trevor.”

12

Mia

Mia’s Apartment

One Lincoln Plaza

New York City

Tuesday morning

Mia didn’t have to show herself at the Guardian until the afternoon, so after happily chowing down her latest favorite breakfast, a cup of tea and an English muffin loaded with peanut butter, she sat at her ancient desk in her sweats and wrote notes about her impressions of the players she’d met at the fundraiser. She’d finished her second cup of tea when her boss, Milo, called, and said right out of the gate, “I didn’t want to wait. Tell me about the fundraiser.”