“Here we are,” Sergeant Petroski says. He knocks—three sharp military raps—at Morgan’s closed door.

“Enter.”

Petroski turns on one polished heel. “Good luck, ma’am. On the project, I mean. I’ll take you back down when you’re ready.”

Morgan stands when I enter, offers me a seat, and punches a button on his desk phone. “Andy, bring coffee for two.” He looks at me. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Black,” I say, returning the smile. If he’s feeling magnanimous, why not join the party, even if his eyes do remind me of the lab mice Lorenzo injected this morning?

He relays the order to Andy, his assistant, and sits in the chair behind his desk, the chair that he’s ratcheted up so that he looks larger. It must be painful, I think, to sit like that without your feet touching the floor.

“So, progress?”

I check the clock above Morgan’s head. “We’ll know in about thirty minutes. Where’s Lin?”

The non sequitur slows him, as if someone has just offered him ice cream, then given him a choice between anchovy and tuna. As he processes what I’ve said, the corners of his mouth turn, first down, then straight, then up again. “That’s terrific. Think we’ll be ready to roll tomorrow?”

“Our first subject is scheduled for Monday.”

“Change it to tomorrow,” he says. Then, “If you can, Jean. Only if you can.”

I take the cue to play nice. He wants something; I want something. “Absolutely.”

Morgan relaxes now, and Andy knocks softly before bringing in a tray.

“Let me,” I say, tipping the carafe over two white mugs with a blue P emblem. “Listen. I’m sorry I yelled at you earlier.”

“We’re all under a great deal of stress, Jean. Peace.”

Sure. Peace. I almost remind Morgan that the word for “peace” and the word for “submission” are virtually identical in some languages, but there’s no point in confusing him. I need the bastard too much.

“I have a small favor to ask. My mother’s suffered a burst aneurysm. Left hemisphere. Wernicke’s area.”

Morgan’s eyes narrow, but he says nothing.

It’s hard to tell whether these eyes convey concern or sympathy or distrust, so I press on, feeling my way one step at a time. “I was wondering, since we’re starting the clinical trials anyway, could we put her on the subject list?”

“Of course we can. Bring her in tomorrow and set it up.”

“Well,” I say, “that’s going to be difficult. She’s in Italy.”

He sits back, one elbow on each of the chair’s armrests, his right ankle resting on his left knee, as if he’s trying to occupy as much space as possible. “Italy,” he repeats.

“Yes. You know, land of pizza and ass-kicking coffee.” Unlike the crap Andy brought in, I think.