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  "I'm so glad you can do the job. I was worried you might be too busy."

  "We're never going to be too busy for you," I answered.

  Moore and I waited until they were in the elevator and heading down before we went back inside, returning to my office. We each poured ourselves a cup of coffee, and I got out the laptop and settled back on the couch, rather than at my desk. Moore took the same chair again and lit a cigarette, and we began going over what would be required. He's one of the most disciplined men I've ever met, partially as a result of serving in the Special Air Service, which is considered by many who know to be the best special forces unit in the world, and perhaps also because he's black and has had to deal with prejudice all his life. He's in his mid-forties, and his face shows the lines of over twenty-five years of hard soldiering. Even working in the public sector, he still kept his hair in a military crop.

  "Going to be a five-day stay in Manhattan," Moore said. "We're arranging for the usual press and speaking engagements, though once the U.N. announces the appointment we'll be getting more requests, so I'm trying to keep some of her schedule free. We'll let you know as more dates get filled."

  "Where will she be staying?"

  "The Edmonton. You know it?"

  "Off Central Park, yeah."

  "We'll be taking a suite on the eighteenth floor."

  "Can you get a room closer to the ground?"

  Moore shook his head. "You know she likes the suites at the Edmonton, and there aren't any below twelve."

  "How many people will you be bringing over?"

  "It'll be her, her personal secretary – young lass named Fiona Chester, you remember her – and myself. That's it."

  I looked at him over the laptop. "No one else?"

  "Her Ladyship thinks that's ostentatious," Moore said.

  I laughed. "You have no idea how refreshing that is to hear."

  "No, I do. I saw the Post today."

  "Are we going to need extra guards?"

  Moore dragged on his cigarette, then jetted smoke from his nose with a slight grimace. "I don't know, honestly. My professional paranoia keeps getting in my way."

  That got a nod, because I understood exactly what he meant. If money and time and appearance were no object, both Moore and I would have preferred that Lady Ainsley-Hunter travel wrapped in Kevlar, and with a rotating detail of twelve guards that included emergency medical personnel.

  He tapped ash into his now-empty coffee cup. "Threat level against her has been very low of late, especially since the burgeoning peace in Northern Ireland. Used to be that the IRA was the major worry, but not any longer. She gets the occasional letter, that's about it."

  "What are the letters like?"

  "Oh, standard nutter, mostly sexual. Fantasies, scenarios, and even those are rarely violent. I forward them to Scotland Yard as a matter of course."

  "I'll want to see all of them, and the list of names, if any of the authors have been identified."

  "Not a problem."

  I typed up some more notes, then showed Moore what I had. He read it over and made a couple of changes, and by four we had a solid plan. I told him we'd get started on the advance work the next morning, and he promised to keep us informed as things developed on his end, especially as more appearances were confirmed. Then we spent another five minutes going over the price, and he got pissy with me when I tried to give him a break on the rate.

  "You're a bloody awful businessman, Atticus. You should charge us what you're worth."

  "You get a discount for being the people who made us famous."

  "Shouldn't make a damn bit of difference, you berk. Now give me the real rate and I'll wire you the retainer tomorrow."

  "Six thousand for the week, plus expenses."

  "What's the bloody matter with you? You should be asking at least ten, and you know it."

  "I can't believe we're arguing about this. Eight thousand, and that's my final offer, take it or leave it."

  He took it and I got out a blank of our standard contract, filled in the appropriate information, and we each signed it. I made a photocopy and handed it over, saving the original for our files, by which time Moore said he had to be going. I escorted him to the door, we shook hands, and then he left.

  I went back to my desk and filed the contract, then cleaned up the empty plate and mugs, dumping Moore's cigarette butt down the toilet. I washed the dishes and put them away, wiped down the counter in the coffee room, and rinsed out the dregs in the pot. Then I went back to my desk and sat down behind it. The lights were off and the shadows were growing long. To my left, opposite the couch, hung the framed covers from Time and New York magazine, and a couple of the front-page photographs from different papers. In the dimness, the newspaper shots reminded me of the slides I'd seen earlier in the day, the way the details blurred and the grays ran together.

  When the light grew too faint for me to see what was inside my office I spun my chair and looked out the window. Traffic down below was backing up as more and more cars tried to squeeze their way into the tunnel, their headlights and taillights reflecting white and red off glass and painted metal. Once in a while the sound of a horn or a siren seeped in from the city around me, but other than that it was quiet.

  I thought about Antonia Ainsley-Hunter, about how much I genuinely liked her, about how impressed I was with the way she used her life. I was proud to have protected her.

  I was proud that she trusted me to do it again.

  Chapter 5

  Ten days later, Dale and I were working in the conference room when the temp at the front desk buzzed us on the intercom. We'd spent the morning on a risk analysis for the area around De Witt Clinton High School in the Bronx, where Lady Ainsley-Hunter would speak in the morning on the second day of her visit. She was going to address the students in the school auditorium, then do the meet-and-greet with members of the local Together Now chapter. Dale and I had driven the area, checking the approaches, then done a walk-through. We'd snapped three-dozen photographs and drawn maps, then dropped the film off at a one-hour place and grabbed lunch.

  Now we were back in the office, trying to determine what the safest route to and from the school was, rather than the quickest. Dale was tacking the relevant pictures to the corkboard at the far end of the room and I was going through the Hagstrom atlas of the five boroughs, tracing out our route and transcribing it longhand onto a legal pad. Natalie and Corry were at the Edmonton, performing yet another walk-through of rooms.

  When the intercom on the phone beeped, I poked the button with the pen. "Yeah?"

  "Mr. Kodiak?" the temp said. "A Ms. Chris Havel is in reception. She doesn't have an appointment. She says she has something to give you."

  "I'll just bet she does," Dale muttered, thumbtacking another photograph to the corkboard.

  "Tell her I'll be right out," I told the intercom, then came off the button, capped my pen, and got up.

  "If she only brought a copy for you, I'll be insulted," Dale said.

  "If she only brought a copy for me, you'll have every right to be," I said.

  She was waiting at the end of the hallway, smiling as I approached. It'd been almost seven months since I'd seen Chris Havel last, and she didn't look different, but there was a new air about her. Her short hair was artistically disheveled, and her skin had the luster that people get from either healthy living or expensive salons. What I knew about her led me to believe it was the latter. She had a book-bag hanging from one shoulder, black leather, Italian, and that was new; her old book-bag had been canvas, olive drab, Kmart. In her left hand she had a paper shopping bag.

  "Thanks for seeing me," Chris said. "I probably should have made an appointment, huh?"

  "I can give you ten minutes without the world ending," I assured her, then gestured to my office. When we got inside, she moved straight to the gallery wall, studying each frame. I settled behind the desk and waited for her to finish. When she had, she flopped on the couch like an exhausted
teenager, letting her book-bag drop to the floor and putting the shopping bag on the coffee table. From inside she removed a stack of gift-wrapped packages, gold foil paper with a blue ribbon tied neatly around each.

  "That it?" I asked.

  "Oh, yeah." She took the top package from the stack, then flipped it my way as if throwing a Frisbee.

  It was a hardcover copy of her book. The dust jacket was in matte black, with two traditional theatre masks on the cover, both in an embossed, glossy silver. One of the masks was Tragedy, the other Comedy. In Tragedy's left eye glistened a tear of blood. On the back of the dust jacket were quotes from a whole bunch of people I'd never heard of before, saying things like "Terrifying!" and "A revelation!" and "Possibly the most definitive work on the subject ever!"

  Her signature was on the title page, with an inscription. The inscription read, To Atticus- Thanks for almost blowing me up.

  "You're welcome," I told her. "Next time I'll try harder."

  "That was murder to come up with. I never realized how damn hard it is to inscribe a book." She patted the stack. "You were the easy one, too. I had no idea what to say to Corry and Dale. Are they here?"

  "Dale's working in the conference room. Natalie and Corry are out right now. If you want to leave the books with me, I'll make sure they get theirs."

  "You're busy."

  "We are," I agreed.

  "I'll leave these with you, then." She settled back on the couch and put her feet on the coffee table, giving me no sign that she was ready to leave. "I tried to do well by you guys. Tried to be honest. You'll have to let me know what you think."

  "I will," I said, closing the book and putting it to one side of the desk, by the phone. "Any word on how it's doing?"

  "The book's not officially out until Monday, and we've already sold through the first print run just on the advance orders. My publisher is going back to press, this time fifty thousand copies in hardcover, can you believe it? They're talking about the Times list like it's a sure thing."

  "I'm impressed."

  She shook her head and made a vague gesture with her hands, telling me to wait, that there was more to come. "Gets even wilder. I mean, I've got a literary agent, he's just sold my second book, the publisher wants it ASAP, and the advance is an embarrassing amount of money, believe me. I've got another agent, the Hollyweird one, and he called this morning with an offer for the movie rights, and that makes the advance for book two look like the change you'd find in a gutter."

  I realized that what I'd thought was delight in her was actually shock.

  "I go on tour next Monday, I'm supposed to do radio and television and Internet chat rooms and PBS and the whole shebang. People are calling my agent, badgering him to get interviews scheduled and crap like that. I'm waiting to wake up, Atticus, waiting for someone to call and say there's been a terrible mistake, they don't mean my book, they mean someone else's book, some other Chris Havel."

  "I'm happy for you," I said, and I was, but my voice didn't carry the sincerity, and she caught it. Hurt crossed her face for a second, then vanished.

  "No, no, I didn't use your names," she said. "All the names were changed."

  The relief was like a car rolling off my chest.

  "Was that it? What was bugging you?"

  "That was it," I said. "Thank you, Chris."

  "Maybe you shouldn't thank me, yet. You're in the acknowledgments, you and the rest, and I mention the firm, too. Anyone paying close attention, they'll figure it out, but…"

  "We can survive that."

  Havel straightened on the couch, letting her feet drop back to the floor. "That scared you?"

  "The thought of more publicity actually makes my blood run cold," I confessed.

  "Is that it? Not that you're afraid she'll, uh…" Havel made a gesture with her right hand, as if shooting a gun.

  "Not anymore."

  She came forward on the couch, perching on the end, actively curious. "Really?"

  "It would be pointless. It's too late to keep the book from being released, so the only other reason to come after us would be revenge, and I don't believe that factors into her world."

  Havel considered, then sighed, leaning back once more. "There were a couple of times when I was writing, I got really scared. Working on a passage, and it would hit me that this was real, that I was writing about this secret, that she was out there, she and others… and I was afraid to go outside, I was afraid to stay indoors, I was afraid to be with people, I was afraid to be alone…"

  "Been there," I said.

  "Yeah, I'm sure you have."

  For a couple of seconds we shared a silent appreciation of fear.

  "I'm supposed to be working on the next one," Havel said. "My new book. They want it yesterday, kind of a sequel to the first one, something along the same lines. Another book about The Ten."

  "Good luck with the research," I said.

  "I was kind of hoping you could help me with that."

  I said nothing.

  Havel looked over at the wall of photographs. "I want to talk to her."

  I choked on a laugh.

  "Yeah, I know how it sounds," she said. "But she talked to you, a couple times, so it's not that outlandish an idea, is it?"

  "No, it is," I assured her. "Chris, you don't want to interview this woman, trust me on this. And come to think of it, I don't imagine she'll be all that willing to grant an interview."

  "Have you heard from her? Since the Pugh thing?"

  She said it like Drama was my ex-girlfriend, as if we'd parted amicably. "Are you nuts?" I asked curiously.

  "I was thinking that if you had, you know, then you could arrange it." She rose, looking at the wall, crossing back for a closer look at the photographs. "I'd be willing to pay her for her time."

  "You're not listening to me," I said. "I haven't talked to her. I don't want to talk to her. And honestly, neither do you."

  "No," Havel said. "Don't tell me what I want, Atticus. It would be an amazing interview, it would be an amazing book."

  "I can't help you."

  "Meaning you won't?"

  "Meaning I haven't heard from her, Chris. Leave it at that."

  She turned away from the wall, studying me at my desk. "She hasn't been in touch with you?"

  "You sound like the Feds. No."

  Her frown was brief, gone again when she asked, "Can you tell me how to contact her?"

  "I already said…"

  "That's not what I mean, I'm talking about like, if I wanted to hire her, you know? How would I do that?"

  I gave her a stare that was hopefully more eloquent than everything she'd been ignoring out of my mouth. She met it with a stare of her own, then shrugged and moved back to the couch, gathering up her book-bag.

  "I can figure it out, you know," she said. "Asking you was just the quick way."

  "Chris," I said. "You really don't want to do this. You start trolling for one of The Ten, they'll investigate before they even begin to make contact, and they'll find out who you are. This time, they'll know about the first book, and they'll see you coming a mile away. You'll be lucky if they simply ignore you."

  With her right hand, she adjusted the leather strap on her shoulder, giving me a smile. "Fear is not a reason to not do something."

  "Maybe you ought to examine the source of the fear. Self-preservation is a valid motive."

  "You don't get it, Atticus," Chris Havel said, heading for my door.

  "Chris…" I tried once more.

  "The name of the game is publish or perish," she said as she went out.

  "The nut file," I said, dropping the folder on Bridgett Logan's desk.

  "What does that look like to you?" she asked.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Bridgett sighed and pointed up. We were in her office at Agra Donnovan Investigations, and she was slumped in her chair behind her desk, ignoring me and focused on the light fixture that hung above. I followed the direction of her index finger, saw th
e bowl of frosted glass attached to the ceiling. A tarnished brass bolt secured the fixture in place.

  "A light fixture," I said.

  "Yeah, but what does it look like?"

  "Is this a trick question? It looks like a light fixture."

  "You have no imagination," she said.

  I pushed the file forward across her desk until it was even with her keyboard. It wasn't the thickest nut file I'd ever handled, but it had meat on its bones, and when I pushed it, pages slid out the way playing cards slide from a newly opened deck. "Courtesy New Scotland Yard," I said. "By way of Robert Moore."

  "And how is that SAS bastard?"

  "Ex-SAS."

  "And how is that ex-SAS bastard?"

  "Counting on us to make certain his principal doesn't take harm in our fair city. I need you to start on this right away."

  "We're on the clock?"

  "Lady, I'm here as the man who is subcontracting your services to assist our protective effort, not as the man who is pleasuring you nightly."

  "You think mighty highly of yourself, don't you?" She sat up in her chair, flipping the folder open and beginning to scan the pages. "These have been vetted?"

  I nodded and took the seat across from her. "Moore or one of his detail screens the mail. They don't like what they read, they forward it to the police and the cops take it from there. That's a copy of the official file, with Moore's notations."

  Bridgett kept scanning the pages. "Notes are remarkably free of anti-Irish sentiment so far. You've reviewed this already, I assume."

  "I have."

  "Any in particular you want me to pay attention to?"

  "I flagged the letters that got me twitchy."

  She found the pages I'd marked, removing them from the folder and spreading them out to view side by side, then resting her elbows on the desktop and her chin in her hands. She read carefully. There were four that I'd noted as worthy of a closer examination. Three were sexual, two of them signed and from the same author. Both letters were couched in romantic phrasing until degrading into more disturbing fantasy when the author described what he wanted to do with Lady Ainsley-Hunter. While his descriptions weren't explicitly violent, the tone as each progressed became more aggressive and bitter. The third was written anonymously, a graphically detailed rape-murder fantasy. Scotland Yard didn't think the author of the first two and the author of the third were the same.