She was concerned, but not overly so. She’d gotten his name from his British passport—it was one of several, of course—and called somebody in another country; he could tell that from the number of times she punched the keypad. The information that came back was, as he knew it would be, that Ian Barrett-Bone was a business consultant without any criminal record and did not appear on a single watchlist around the world.

“There’s a lot of money at stake in this matter.”

“What matter?”

“Oh, Sikari’s efforts, his companies . . . I would like to participate in a little of it. To that end, I’d like to get a message to Harold Middleton.” He was perfectly calm, vaguely amused. “I might be able to spot him a few details on Sikari.”

“Such as?”

“You can understand why I might want to share that solely with Colonel Middleton.”

“And you can understand why that won’t happen.”

Barrett-Bone feigned a sulk. “Pity.”

“You’ll talk to us.”

“And if I don’t? Please don’t throw out idle threats. Your reputation precedes you. That’s the problem with being honorable, you know. Damn hard to scare people.”

Tesla took his face in her hand, squeezing till his lips pursed. “You tried to kill an innocent woman.”

He shook off her hold, but for a moment his insouciance wavered. “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. The people I represent and I had nothing to do with that. That was Sikari’s cock-up. A woman on his payroll named Jana. South Asian lass, lovely to look at, nasty disposition. None too trustworthy, either.”

“And what people do you represent?”

“I think you missed a subtle hint in what I just said. This Jana, she’s none too trustworthy. She’s a bit of a loose bird. She’s playable, if the conditions dictate. And the price is right.”

“Why should we believe you?”

“Well for fuck’s sake, luv, why should anyone believe anybody?”

Tesla leaned close. Whispering in his ear, she said, “If you call me luv again, I’ll shoot you for the sheer pleasure of it.”

He regarded her with mock horror. “What is it with American women?”

“What people do you represent?”

“Look, I’ve already put a few cards on the table here.”

“Who’s the Scorpion?”

He withdrew behind a mask of coy bemusement. “I’m not sure I know who you mean. Sounds like a comic book hero to me.”

“A villain, I’m betting.”

He shrugged. “The narcissism of minor differences.”

The driver honked at a wayward cyclist, who responded with a hand-flick to the chin. Tesla said, “You work for him. The Scorpion.”

“I’m here, talking to you, on my own graces. And just to confirm my bona fides, I’m going to fill you in on a little detail that should make it clear I know of what I speak.”