I thought about following her, then decided to give her some space. “Speaking of morons,” I said.

Rovil nodded, not objecting.

I said, “I keep forgetting that people take this God stuff personally.”

“This is why people don’t like atheists,” he said. He raised his bandaged hand to signal for the check. “The rudeness.”

“It’s the stress of being outnumbered even though we’re right.”

“That’s what I don’t understand,” Rovil said. “You’re not an atheist, though you pretend to be one. You know the truth as well as I do.”

“Sorry, no.”

“You’re a smart gal,” he said, failing to keep the smile from his face. “You’ve been trained as a scientist. Why do you ignore the evidence of your own experience?”

The Rat Boy, busting on me. I liked it.

“Because personal experience is the crappiest evidence of all, kid. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, the brain is one lying son of a bitch.”

When Ollie returned I tried to apologize, but she brushed it aside. Her face was composed. “Let’s talk about how we’re going to reach Edo,” she said.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Peninsula Hotel spoke to me, and what it said was, Welcome to a 1920s Broadway musical. The bellhops wore white pillbox caps and crisp white uniforms with double-breasted brass buttons. The doormen were dressed as generals of obscure European countries. The lobby, visible through the glass doors, resembled an itinerant worker’s dream of Heaven. I hadn’t even stepped inside, and I already knew that I would never be able to impersonate a plausible customer of the place.

“This is where Edo likes to stay?” I asked. The Edo I’d known disliked pretense, drank cheap American beer, and ate from street stalls. This didn’t seem like his kind of place at all. Then again, the Edo I’d known didn’t exist anymore.

We were in Rovil’s car, across the street from the hotel. Vehicle access in this part of Manhattan was restricted, but Rovil had purchased the necessary permit. Ollie had sent me to the backseat and ordered me to slouch, staying out of sight of the windows—even though they were tinted almost black. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d also insisted I wear the fedora we’d bought on the way down from Canada. Why? “Cameras,” she said. The hat did not make me feel like a spy. It made me feel like a ridiculous person pretending to be a spy.

Ollie wore a knit cap and dark sunglasses, and she’d done something weird to her face. Before we’d left Rovil’s apartment she’d applied a strip of clear tape to each cheek, giving her an instant facelift. “Fucks with the facial recognition software,” she said.

She was keyed up, intently watching the hotel entrance and the surrounding sidewalks. It was a beautiful day, cold but clear and sunny. Dr. Gloria was somewhere above us, flying with the city’s red-tailed hawks or communing with urban deities—whatever it was that angels did on vacation. We shouldn’t have long to wait. Edo and Eduard’s jet had landed an hour ago, and we’d rolled up to the hotel ten minutes later. There was no way they could have beaten us here.

Rovil said, “I should be at work.”

“Come on, we’re on a stakeout,” I said. “How often do you get to do a stakeout?”

Ollie said, “Here we go.” A team of doormen and bellhops began to assemble outside the hotel. They seemed to be under the command of a man in a dark suit who wore a proud, jet-black pompadour. A few seconds later, a pair of sleek black BMWs pulled up to the curb.

“Those are the hotel cars,” Ollie said. “Keep your head down.”

I ignored her and tried to get a glimpse of Edo. Four or five people exited the cars—none leaving by the doors facing the street—and were immediately surrounded by hotel staff, then ushered inside. It was over in seconds. I’d seen only the backs of the passengers, but several of them were tall and blond and male. At least four Edo candidates.

I said, “Tell me one of those guys was Edo.”

“I told you to keep your head down,” Ollie said. “Edo was the one on the right. Eduard Jr. was to his left. The other three were assistants. Are you ready to go in?”

“What about cameras?” I asked.

“Just keep your hat on, and walk fast.”

“There’s no way I can pass for a customer,” I said. “This dress is about two thousand dollars too cheap. And this haircut—”

“Your husband is the customer,” Ollie said. “You’re just the suburban housewife.”

“That’s sexist,” I said. “And how is it that my husband is so much younger than I am?”

“You put him through grad school,” Ollie said.

“Thank you for that,” Rovil said.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “But if you trade me for a trophy wife now that you’re finally successful I’ll cut off your balls. And I’m keeping the house.”

The plan was for Rovil and I to rent a room on the highest floor we could manage. Edo and company would be staying in the Peninsula Suite at the top of the building. Our room keys wouldn’t convince the elevator to take us to that floor, but Ollie said staff badges could override that. Where, exactly, Ollie was going to get a staff badge she refused to say. She promised to meet us in our room, and then we’d zip up to chat with Edo.

“Let’s give them a few more minutes to check in,” Ollie said. “Then we can—oh shit.”

The man in the black pompadour was walking across the street toward us. Ollie twisted around to look past me out the rear window and said, “Rovil. Drive. Now.”

I looked out the back. A tall, blond man, one of Edo’s staff that I’d seen going into the building with him, strode toward us. Rovil pressed the start button, put the car in gear—and then said, “Ollie?”

The blond man had reached Rovil’s window. He twirled a finger, the universal symbol for Roll Down Your Windows—universal despite the fact that no one had manually rolled down a window in twenty years.

“Damn it,” Ollie said quietly. Then to Rovil, “Might as well.”

Rovil pressed a button, and the glass slid down.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Gupta,” the man said. He leaned in so he could make eye contact with me in the backseat. No: so his eye contacts could make eye contact. His eyes gleamed with the false wet of data overlays. Was Edo watching this video feed?

“Ms. Rose,” the man said. “Mr. Vik would like to talk to you.”

Ollie stared at the man. She seemed to vibrate with barely suppressed anger. Whether she was mad at the blond man, herself, or me I couldn’t tell. She’d told me to keep my head down, but did I listen?

“Your friends can wait here with the car,” the man said. “We wouldn’t want it to get towed.”

I started to object, but Ollie said in a clipped voice, “We’ll be fine.”

Yes, but would I?

*   *   *

The lobby was grander and more beautiful than the online photos suggested. I’d noticed this effect before, the first time I’d visited Mikala’s family and stepped into rooms I’d only seen as background in her family photos: There was a resolution limit in capturing really expensive objects. Money radiated in a spectrum that was impossible to record.

The clerk with the black pompadour didn’t lead us to the elevators, as I expected, but toward another set of doors off the lobby. The blond man gestured for us to enter.

I hesitated, conscious of the smart pen in my purse. Ollie had better be listening in.

It was a conference room, with a glossy cherrywood table in the shape of a surfboard. The room was empty except for Dr. Gloria, who sat at the head of the table, writing on her notepad. It was pathetic how relieved I was to see her.

“Nice of you to show up,” I said in my tough voice. I was, after all, wearing a fedora.

She looked up, then removed her glasses. “I thought you might need someone to hold you down. Do you think you can get through this?”

“Of course,” I said. “All Edo has to do is confess everything.”