“Sergeant Holmes?” he inquired.

The warmth and politeness of his tone cut right through her intention to say “Who the hell are you?” in a petulant fashion, and all she could contrive was a rather weak “Yes.” “My name is Lowenthal,” he said. “Michael Lowenthal.” “You shouldn’t be here, Mr. Lowenthal,” she said, having recovered her breath and something of her sense of purpose. “This area is under quarantine.” “I know,” he said, taking a swipecard from an invisible pocket without disturbing the line of his suitskin. He held the card out to her, and while she took it in order to slot it into her beltphone he added: “I’m a special investigator.” The display on her phone read: FULLY AUTHORIZED. OFFER FULL COOPERATION.

Charlotte, slightly numb with shock, turned around in order to plug her machine into the wall socket again. She summoned Hal’s image to the screen beside Gabriel King’s door.

“What’s this, Hal?” she said.

“Exactly what it says,” her superior replied rather brusquely. “The instruction came down from above, presumably from the very top. We’re to copy Mr. Lowenthal in on the progress of our investigation. Anything we get, he gets.” Charlotte knew that it would be as useless to express surprise as it would be to object. She had never known that such an instruction was possible, but she was uncomfortably aware that she had not been long in the job. She had only the vaguest idea of what and where the “very top” might be from which this remarkable command had apparently descended. She turned to stare at Michael Lowenthal as if he were some kind of legendary beast.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know what’s going on either. The serious investigation is being done by my superiors—Webwalkers working in close collaboration with Inspector Watson, and a pack of silver surfers to join forces with his. Like you, I’m just a… what’s the term? Legman—I'm just a legman.” “You’re a private investigator?” said Charlotte incredulously.

“Nothing so glamorous, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Merely a humble employee, like yourself.” She opened her mouth to say “Employee of what?” but was saved from the verbal infelicity by the opening of the apartment door. It slid back into its bed to reveal a shimmering plane, like the surface of a soap bubble. The first of the protectively clad forensic investigators was already stepping into the bubble.

She was carrying a camera in one hand and a bulky plastic bag in the other, but the bubble stretched to accommodate everything and folded around her, equipping her suit and her luggage with yet another monomolecular layer of protection.

Her three companions followed her one by one, each one stepping through the quarantine barrier in careful slow motion, as if fearful of puncturing the surface—although that would, of course, have been impossible.

The team leader looked at Michael Lowenthal with obvious apprehension, unwilling to say anything until the stranger’s presence was explained.

“It’s okay,” Charlotte told her. “This is Michael Lowenthal, special investigator. He’s been cleared. Mr. Lowenthal, this is Lieutenant Regina Chai” Lowenthal merely nodded, evidently as eager to hear what the lieutenant had to say as Charlotte was.

“We’ve stripped the place,” Chai reported in her usual businesslike manner. “You can lock the door now. The air’s been thoroughly cleaned, but until we get a fix on the agent, the apartment has to stay sealed. Given that the woman walked in and out without a care in the world—and given that you’ve been standing around out here for the past couple of hours—the surrounds must be safe, and if they aren’t it’s too damn late to do anything about it, so you can unseal the other apartments and free up the floor.

“We transmitted all the film back to Hal—he should have an edited version ready for briefing purposes in a couple of minutes. The skeleton is definitely King’s, but there’s nothing on the tapes to indicate how the agent was administered. The bedroom was privacy-sealed, just like the brochure says—classy building! All I can say for sure is that he looked happy enough when he came out. The card that came with the yellow flowers might have given him a clue, if he’d bothered to read it, but he didn’t. Died without ever knowing that there was anything really wrong—even his alarm call wasn’t panic-stricken. If this thing ever gets loose… but I guess that’s why you’re here.” The last remark was addressed to Michael Lowenthal. Chai had obviously assumed that he was from whatever UN department was responsible for maintaining eternal vigilance against the possibility that the specter of plague war might one day return to haunt the world. The blond man didn’t make any sign that could be construed as a confirmation or a denial.

“Thanks, Lieutenant,” said Charlotte. “Can you get all that stuff down to the van and away without being seen?” “As long as the supervisor’s following instructions. Be seeing you.” Chai turned away to join her companions, who were waiting in the elevator car that had brought Lowenthal up to the thirty-ninth floor. There was just about room for her to squeeze in along with all the equipment and the plastic bags. Charlotte watched the door slide shut behind them, and stabbed the button that would summon the second car from the lobby. The display screen informed her that it had not begun to move.

Cursing under her breath, Charlotte punched out Rex Carnevon’s number on her beltphone, which was still plugged into the wall socket.

“You can liberate the second elevator car now,” she told him. “I’m ready to come down.” “I know,” the horrid little man replied smugly, “but I thought I’d better hold it. I was just on the point of calling you. There’s a man here who says that he’s got an appointment with Gabriel King. He’s anxious to get up there because he’s a little late—his cab got held up by a funeral procession, or so he says. I thought you might want me to bring him up—unless you’d rather talk to him in my office.” Charlotte was uncomfortably aware of Michael Lowenthal’s bright blue eyes. She dared not meet his inquisitive stare.

“What’s this man’s name?” she asked.

The smug expression on Rex Carnevon’s face deepened as he relished his petty supremacy. He gave himself the luxury of a three-second pause before he decided that he had drunk his fill of satisfaction and said: “Oscar Wilde.” Charlotte, although slightly stunned by the news, thought fast. Evidently the cab in which the self-styled Young Master had been traveling, unwilling to be disturbed even by the UN police, had been heading for Trebizond Tower—and the Young Master himself had been heading for Gabriel King’s apartment, to see the murdered man. Given that the girl who had probably carried out the murder had been carrying a bunch of Oscar Wilde flowers, and given that the murder weapon was also a flower, that put Oscar Wilde at the dead center of the puzzle.

Charlotte was very enthusiastic to talk to him—but the last thing she wanted to do was allow Rex Carnevon to eavesdrop on her conversation. It would be bad enough having Lowenthal looking on, even though she’d have had to hand over a tape in any case.

“Send him up,” said Charlotte tersely as soon as she had recovered her composure. “Alone.” This, she thought, was a golden opportunity to do some real detective work: to question a witness; to get to grips with a mystery; to play a significant part in cracking a case. Hal was a top-class fisherman—his average time for completing an investigation was two hours, seventeen minutes, and fourteen seconds—but he never had suspects turn up on his doorstep ready for questioning.

This case had already lasted longer than Hal’s average cracking time, and it seemed highly likely to set a new record. It would be a very good case in which to get more deeply involved, and Wilde’s unexpected arrival at the crime scene had to be reckoned a godsend to a humble site supervisor.