There was a dull throbbing in my head where she’d connected. I moved over to the purse and picked it up to make sure she couldn’t try to get to it again. I didn’t know what was inside: lipstick Mace, edged credit cards, a pen-gun like mine, maybe.

Belghazi groaned again. I’d need at least a few minutes to prepare him for the injection, even assuming I could do it without interference from my new sparring partner, and it looked like I’d run out of time.

“It would have been nice if we could have met under different circumstances,” I said, rubbing my sore left temple, taking a step toward the door.

“How are you going to get past the bodyguard?” I heard her say.

That off-balanced me. I had expected them to depart after they saw Belghazi to his room.

I aimed the SoldierVision at the wall and checked the monitor. Sure enough, there was a human image just on the other side of the door. Oh, shit.

“Give me the video,” she said, “and I’ll send the guard away. You can go.”

I shook my head slowly, trying to figure out a way to improvise out of this.

Belghazi groaned again. She glanced at him, then back to me. “Look,” she whispered sharply, “I don’t know who you are, but you’re obviously no friend of his. You’ve figured out that I’m not his friend, either. Maybe we can help each other.”

“Maybe,” I said, looking at her.

“But show me some good faith. Give me the video.”

I shook my head again. “You know I can’t. You wouldn’t, in my place.”

Her eyes narrowed a fraction. “I don’t think there even is a video. So when he wakes up, it’s going to be your word against mine. And I promise, he’ll be inclined to believe me, not you.”

I shrugged. “What if I told him to check the boot log on his computer? I’m sure Belghazi has it enabled. Or to take a good look at your ‘cell phone’?”

She didn’t have an answer to that one.

“But I agree that we can help each other,” I said. “And here’s how we can do it. I’m going to hide again. You get the bodyguard in here, tell him Belghazi seems really sick, he’s been throwing up and is barely conscious, and you need to get him to a hospital. You and the bodyguard walk him out of here. No one’s going to search the room after he’s been in it, and as soon as you’re gone, I’ll be gone, too. You can have the video after that.”

She was silent for a long moment. If I were caught here now and Belghazi got ahold of the “video,” or if I blabbed about his boot log or her cell phone, her cover, whatever it was, would be blown for certain. If I were to leave with the “video,” she’d be taking a risk, but she might be okay. She understood these odds, and she knew that I understood them, too.

“How do I contact you?” I asked, closing the deal.

She pursed her lips, then said, “You can look for me in the casino after eight tomorrow night.”

“The Lisboa?”

“No, here, the Oriental.”

“What do I call you?”

She looked at me, her eyes coolly angry. “Delilah,” she said.

Belghazi groaned again. I nodded once and moved quickly back to the bathroom. I took out the Meisterstück, then hauled myself back into the sling under the sink.

A moment later, I heard the door to the suite open, followed by a muffled conversation in French. Delilah’s voice and a man’s. I heard them come into the suite, where they started trying to rouse Belghazi. I could pick out a few words in French: “sick,” “hospital,” “doctor.” Then Belghazi’s voice, low and groggy: “Non, non. Je vais bien.” No, no, I’m fine. Delilah’s voice, closer now, urging him to see a doctor. More demurrals, also closer.

Shit, he had gotten up and they were coming my way. I willed myself to relax and breathed silently through my nose.

“Je vais bien,” I heard him say again from just outside the bathroom. His voice sounded steadier now. “Attendez une minute.” I heard his feet lightly slapping the marble floor, coming closer. Then the sound of a faucet turning, of water coursing through the pipes around me. I turned my head and looked down. A pair of feet and lower legs stood before the sink. If I’d wanted to, I could have reached down and touched them. I noted two bare lines running the length of his shinbones, where the hair had been worn away, along with a slight rippling effect in the surface of the bone itself-both signature deformations of Thai boxers and other practitioners of hardcore kicking arts. The bones enlarge in response to the trauma of repeated blows, eventually developing into a nerveless and brutally hard striking surface. Belghazi’s file had said something about Savate-a French style of kickboxing. It looked like that information had been correct.

I heard him splashing water on his face, groaning “merde” as he did so. Then the rhythmic sounds of a hasty scrub with a toothbrush-an ordinary enough urge after vomiting.

The sounds of the toothbrush stopped. The water was turned on again. Then something clattered to the floor, practically underneath me.

I turned my head and saw it: he had dropped the toothbrush. Fuck.

My heart rate, which had been reasonably calm under the circumstances, kicked into overdrive. Adrenaline surged from my midsection into my neck and limbs. I tightened my grip on the Meisterstück. I breathed shallowly, silently. My body was perfectly still.

Belghazi knelt and reached for the toothbrush. I saw the top of a close-cropped scalp; the bridge of a nose, bent from some long-ago break; the upper plane of a pair of prominent cheekbones; his shoulders and back, thickly muscled, covered with dark hair.

All he had to do was glance up, and he would see me.

But he didn’t. His fingers closed around the toothbrush and he straightened. A moment later the water stopped running, and he padded out of the bathroom.

I heard voices again from the bedroom, but could only make out a bit of what they were saying. It seemed that Belghazi was adamant about not seeing a doctor. Christ, I was going to have to spend the night slung up under the sink like a rock climber sleeping alongside a mountain.

I heard Delilah’s voice. Something about “médecine.” The door to the suite opened and closed.

Two minutes passed. Silence from the suite. Then the sounds of footsteps, rapidly approaching. Someone burst into the bathroom and blew past me into the toilet stall. The stall door slammed, followed immediately by the sounds of Belghazi retching.

I heard Delilah’s lighter footsteps. She headed straight for the sink and squatted down so she could see me. She must have given it some thought and realized that this would be the only decent place to hide. Again I was impressed.

“I’ve sent the guard to get some medicine,” she whispered. “This will be your only chance.”

Without a word I rolled out of the harness and dropped silently to the floor on one hand and the balls of my feet. I started to reach up to undo the equipment, but Delilah stopped me with a hand on my shoulder. “Leave the rig,” she said. “There’s no time. I’ll take care of it later.”

From behind the stall door, Belghazi exclaimed, “Merde!” and retched again. I nodded at Delilah and headed for the exit. She followed me closely. I paused before the door and used the SoldierVision to confirm that the hallway was clear before leaving.

I moved into the empty corridor. She shut the door behind me without another word.