“That’s not too bad for me. I mean a human is bigger than a can,” Warlock had said.

“Bullshit. That means you’ll die seven out of ten times, and an attacker moves a little better than an oil can.”

“Maybe I’d better practice. Actually, I’m more a private detective than a spy, to be frank.”

“I already knew you wasn’t a spy.”

“How come?”

“A true spy never admits he’s a spy, even to his wife or best friend.”

After they had fired the last round Warlock had allowed Hudley to run out and shake the can with vigor to make sure it was dead. The dog had cut its lip and sucked on the slight wound with a certain appetite. This temporarily disturbed his gastric system, but they proceeded happily through porterhouses, and the morels Warlock had soaked, then sautéed with shallots.

He hurried through the newspaper when he remembered the briefcase sheltered in the fireproof refrigerator. There was a minor betrayal of trust incorporated in his tuxedo, fandango, and booze-soaked sleep. Anyone could have sneaked in the back porch and slipped out with a very cold briefcase. Jesus. Get back on your toes. Attention! He lashed cold water in his face, slapped himself a little too firmly, then set up a card table in the living room so he could see the Sunday night CBS news with Ed Bradley while studying the portfolio. Diana was asleep on the couch, and her robe had edged up her legs to a distracting degree so he took a quick peek—still there—and pulled the robe down gently to a decent level. His pulse beat wildly as he pressed the latch on the briefcase, as if he expected a bomb, a cobra, a cuckoo clock.