“He should be out later today. We like to dry the drunks out before we release them back to their bars.”

“Did you see him?”

“No.”

“He wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t touched a drop.”

“Blood test shows different.”

Reeve blew his nose again. He’d been about to say, Why doesn’t that surprise me? Instead he said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Got time or inclination for a drink?”

“I’m afraid you’d pull me in for DUI.”

“Hell, I wouldn’t do that,” McCluskey said, smiling, “not to a tourist. So where to now? The airport?”

Reeve checked his watch. “I suppose so.”

“I’ll come with you. Maybe we can have that drink there.”

“Why not?” Reeve said, though it was the last thing he wanted. They went to their cars. Other vehicles were arriving, including two large black limos bearing the family of the crematorium’s next client. Other cars had arrived early, and the drivers and passengers were waiting to emerge. It looked like a point of etiquette: the chief mourners should be the first to arrive. Reeve’s eyes almost met those of one mourner, sitting in his car with his hands on the steering wheel. But the man had turned away a second before.

He was back out on the highway, following McCluskey, when he realized who the man had reminded him of. He nearly lost control of the Blazer, and braked hard. A pickup behind him sounded its horn, and he accelerated again.

A ghost. He told himself he’d seen a ghost. It was that sort of day.

At check-in, Reeve got rid of his bag. He had a few small items of Jim’s, but otherwise was taking back practically nothing he hadn’t brought with him. Allan’s kite was safely layered between shirts. Maybe he could get some perfume for Joan on the plane. Not that she ever wore perfume.

McCluskey was suggesting that drink when his pager beeped. He went to a pay phone and called the station. He looked annoyed when he returned.

“I’ve got to go, Gordon. Sorry.”

“Not your fault.”

McCluskey put out his hand, which Reeve felt duty-bound to shake. McCluskey could feel it was of a different quality from their first handshake. Reeve wasn’t putting anything into it.

“Well,” the detective said, “have a nice flight back. Come see us again sometime.”

“Right,” Reeve said, turning away. He saw the board pointing him towards his gate, and headed for it. McCluskey waited till he was out of sight, then watched for another minute or so. Then he went out to his car. He was worried about Reeve. He didn’t think Reeve knew much, but he did know something was wrong. And now he had Agrippa. McCluskey had considered telling Kosigin that Reeve now held that one word, but that would mean admitting that he’d missed the scrap of paper in the dead man’s pocket. Kosigin didn’t like mistakes. McCluskey intended to keep quiet about the whole thing.

Jay was leaning against McCluskey’s car like he owned not only the car but the whole parking lot, and maybe everything else in the city, too.

“Scratch the paint, I’ll kill your whole family.”

“My family are all dead,” Jay said, lifting his weight from the wheel well.

McCluskey unlocked his door but didn’t open it. He squinted into the glare as an airplane lifted into the blue, hanging sky. “Think we’ve seen the last of him?” McCluskey asked. “I certainly fucking hope so. I didn’t like him. I don’t think he liked me. I wasted a lot of effort on that fuck.”

“I’m sure Mr. Kosigin is grateful. Maybe you’ll have a bonus this month.”

McCluskey didn’t like Jay’s insolent smile. But then he didn’t like his reputation either. He pulled open the driver’s door. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I wasn’t listening.”

“I asked if you thought we’ve seen the last of him.”

Jay grinned. “I think you’ve seen the last of him.” He was waving something. It looked to McCluskey like an air ticket. “Mr. Kosigin thinks I should take a vacation… back to the old homeland.” He paused. “I think he saw me.”

“What?”

“Back at the crematorium, I think he got a sideways glance. It would make things more interesting if the Philosopher knew I was around.”

McCluskey frowned. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

But Jay just shook his head, still grinning, and walked away. He was whistling something, a tune the detective half-recognized.

It bugged him for days, but he never did place it.

Jeffrey Allerdyce was entertaining a corporate client in the penthouse dining room of Alliance Investigative in Washington, DC.

This meant, in effect, that Alliance’s senior partners were entertaining, while Allerdyce looked on from his well-upholstered office chair, which had been brought up one flight to the penthouse by a pair of junior partners (who naturally played no other part in the affair).

Allerdyce did not enjoy entertaining, and didn’t see why it was expected of a company. To his mind, if you worked well for a client, that should always be enough. But as one senior partner and a host of accountants had told him, there needed to be more these days. Clients needed to feel wanted, cherished, cosseted. They needed, the senior partner had had the temerity to declare, to feel loved.

As if Allerdyce were entertaining them because he actually liked them. The only human being Jeffrey Allerdyce had ever loved was his father. The list of people he had liked in his long life wouldn’t have filled an address label. He liked dogs-he owned two-and he liked an occasional gamble. He liked pasta with fresh pesto sauce. He liked the Economist and the Wall Street Journal, though neither as much as he once did. He liked Inspector Morse on TV, and the music of Richard Wagner. He would travel far for a live concert, if he could be assured of the quality of the artists involved.

He held the belief that his very distrust and dislike of people had made his agency the success it was. But success had bred the need for further success-bringing with it the necessity for corporate entertainment. He watched with a beady eye from his chair as the hired staff made sure plates were full. They were under instructions not to approach him. He would make his needs, if any, known to a senior partner, and food would be brought to him accordingly.

The affair had been arranged meticulously. A senior partner was allocated someone from the client company. They had to entertain that person, make any necessary introductions, check that glasses were replenished. Allerdyce almost sneered his contempt. One balding man in an expensive suit which hung from him like a dishrag from its peg was gulping at the champagne. Gulping it, swallowing it down, getting it while he could. Aller-dyce wondered if anyone knew, or even cared, that it was Louis Roederer Cristal, 1985. The champagne of czars, an almost unbelievably beguiling wine. He had allowed himself one glass, just to check the temperature was correct.

A senior partner, nominally in charge of “the floor,” came over and whispered into Allerdyce’s ear. It gratified Allerdyce to see that members of the client company, even the CEO, glanced over at the conversation with something like fear-as well they might. The CEO called him J. Edgar behind his back. It was al-most a compliment, but was probably said with a certain amount of nervous, defensive laughter. The nickname was apposite be-cause, like Hoover, Allerdyce craved information. He hoarded the stuff, from tidbits to full-scale secret reports. Being at the hub of Washington, and especially at the hub of Washington’s secrets, Allerdyce had collected a lot of information in his time. He used very little of it in any physical way. It was enough that he knew. It was enough that he could shake the CEO’s hand, stare into his eyes, and let the man know with that stare that he knew about the male prostitute the CEO kept in a suite only four blocks from the White House.