As he finished speaking, Pierre Crane looked out, realizing they were long past Les Bosquets. They appeared to be in a lovely residential section of outer Paris where swaying trees, autumn flowers, and luxuriant moonlit lawns showed on both sides of the car. High hedges and pastel-painted walls appeared, lining it. The occasional driveway was sealed by ornate gates that were really high-security barricades.

“Where are we?” Crane asked.

“Nowhere in particular. It doesn’t matter really, does it now? In fact, I don’t know either. We’re simply being driven. The point was for you and me to have a quiet, uninterrupted conversation. And that we’re having indeed. You’ve just related an entertaining tale, Mr. Crane.” He dusted an imaginary annoyance from the sleeve of his superb suit. “And what do you plan to do with it?”

“I’d like to write a story about the brilliant young Kashmiri who turned his back on the West and became an independence fighter. The benefactor who funded his education and was then betrayed when Sikari returned to Kashmir is part of that story. The name ‘the Scorpion’ came up in several conversations. So, will you confirm that you are the benefactor? The Good Samaritan who was betrayed?”

“There are occasions when it’s far better for everyone to remain anonymous,” the man replied. “Besides, as you said yourself, with two of the men dead and the third likely gone mad, I hardly think anyone would want to take credit for the experiment.”

“The ‘experiment’? That’s even more intriguing. What did you hope to accomplish?”

“No, no. I wasn’t the one. If I were, and I didn’t want you to know, I’d simply dodge your questions. I had nothing to do with any of it.” He held up a manicured hand. “Please, let me finish. At the same time, I’d like to know more, too.”

“Why?”

“A man can’t have too much knowledge. If I give you the address of a place where you’re likely to uncover new information, will you promise to let me know in detail what you discover?”

Crane was surprised. He had expected the Scorpion to try to stop him, and any help he got from the mysterious rich man would have to be wormed—or tricked—out of him.

“Why don’t you go yourself?” Crane demanded.

Again there was a twinkle in the older man’s blue eyes. “Through you, I will. It is, shall we say, more discreet this way. From everything my people tell me, you’re a man of your word. What’s your answer?”

“All right, I’ll give you a report. After that, I make no promises.”