Twenty-six South was at the end of the hall and Carson realized its windows faced the parking lot, which teemed with cars glistening in the afternoon sun. “What’s the play?” she said.

Lespasse dug into his wallet and pulled out a Technologie de Demain business card. “A cold call,” he said. “I will ask for the head of IT.”

“You think they’ll have staff here? I mean, this office is probably the biggest on this side of the building. But it’s a shell, if anything.”

“I suppose you can file a patent from a post office box. Why go to the expense of opening an office if you don’t intend to use it?”

Carson reached for the door. “Ready?”

He held up a finger. “Forgive me, but I will put on a heavy accent. Maybe it will explain why I’m so . . . so wrinkled.”

She smiled. “At least you’re wearing slacks. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt.”

“Yes, but your T-shirt is the same color as your boots, and no one wears jeans like you, Connie. Maybe 100 men on our flights will swear to that.” He didn’t mention the make-up she applied at the airport nor the lipstick she refreshed before they left the car.

“Well, to be safe, I’m calling you ‘boss.’”

“Très bien,” Lespasse replied.

Carson swung open the door, and Lespasse stepped inside.

The office was empty.

Thin wires dangled from displaced ceiling panels and a few telephone handsets sat on the floor. There was room for perhaps 10 desks, but there were none in sight. The air-conditioner had been turned off.

As Carson passed him, Lespasse switched on the overhead lights. They flickered, then glowed. “Someone paid the bill,” he said.

Carson had stepped into a private office. It too was empty, its carpet musty and soiled, its closet flung open and bare. “So much for Sindhu Power & Electric . . . ”

Across the office space was another closet, the kind that held paper products, out-of-date files in cardboard boxes, maybe a space for jackets and personal effects. Someone had started to clean it—probably to get the place ready to lease again.

Together, Carson and Lespasse went through it and found nothing enlightening—except for a blank label from an international shipping company she’d never heard of. She also found a discarded Post-It note: Call Moscow. 14.00 hours. Carson jotted down the information. “That’s it,” she sighed. “When someone skedaddles, they usually leave something behind.”

She looked around. The blinds were drawn tight, but under the overhead lights, she could see there was dust everywhere—on the ledge below the windows, on the phones on the floor. Every door inside the suite was flung open. Except for another closet door.

“Maybe they have,” Lespasse said as he approached it, “Let’s see what we—”