“Maybe he’s been warned. Maybe the kid’s involved.”

“She’s not.”

“So you keep saying.”

“I’m right, Yevgeny.”

His father didn’t answer immediately, because three Bavarians materialized close behind them and whispered in awed tones, gesturing up at the painting, one waving his camera around. Once they’d moved on, he said, “You know as well as I do that it would take a lot longer than a week to find out why your people want some girl dead. Just because New York won’t tell you doesn’t mean there isn’t a reason.”

Milo didn’t bother answering, because the subject had moved beyond argument by now. No evidence would sway him.

Primakov turned to look at his son, though at first he focused past him to take in the milling tourists sprinkled throughout the cathedral. His focus drew back, and he frowned. “You look absolutely terrible, Misha. You stink.”

“Perils of the job.”

Primakov turned back to the painting. “My opinion? You’re probably right. This girl has nothing to do with anything, and her death will serve no one’s interests. Except, of course, your immediate supervisor’s. Who is he?”

Even now, Primakov was trying to extract what he could. “Alan Drummond.”

“He’s new, then? I thought Mendel was running it.”

“Drummond says he’s gone now.”

“And this Drummond is…?”

“A voice on the telephone.”

Without turning to face him, Primakov said, “You didn’t check up on the voice on the telephone asking you to kill little girls?”

Milo stared at the back of his father’s head. “Yale. Marines-Afghanistan for two years. Moved to the Company in ’05. Arms Control Intelligence Staff. Requested transfer to Congressional Affairs the next year. Can’t say how he got to Tourism. Friends, I suppose.”

“Who’s he friends with?”

“Don’t know, but it can’t be nobody.”

Primakov swatted at his cheek. “It makes sense, then. Mendel’s been vetting you the slow way. Easy jobs. This Drummond takes over, and he wants to show his government sponsors what a big shot he is; he wants Tourism up and running. So he looks at your file and notices your daughter. Ideally, he’d find a six-year-old for you to take care of, but that’s a lot to ask anyone, even a Tourist. So he doubles the age and pulls out a random name.”

“Then what I said stands. It’s finished. I’m not killing some kid just to clear my name with New York.”

“I’d suggest you think about it first.”

“I’ve been thinking for a week, Yevgeny.” He paused. “Mother won’t allow it.”

The old man swiped at his cheek again. “Been hearing her voice again?”

“Occasionally.”

The fact that his son was listening to a dead woman didn’t faze Yevgeny Primakov. “You don’t have to kill her, you know. You said they want no traces, no body. Disappearance is enough.”

“Hold her in a basement somewhere? Thanks for the help.”

He turned to leave, but Primakov caught his arm, and they walked together down the southern aisle. “You’re strung out. Pills again?”

“Not many.”

“We need you healthy, Misha. I don’t want you buried yet. Neither does Tina. Have you talked to her?”

Quick, elastic memories stretched into his head. That last meeting with his wife-November, the day after the Company came calling. Their counseling sessions had been circling around the same arguments, never moving forward. Trust-that was the issue. Tina had learned too much about her husband. No one, she’d explained in front of the therapist, likes to feel like the fool in a relationship. Over the weeks he’d seen no sign of forgiveness, so he said yes to the Company, and the next day announced his new job with the vague descriptor field work. The therapist, noticing the sudden chill in the room, asked Tina if she had something she felt like saying. Tina stroked the corner of her long, sensual lips. Well, I was going to suggest he move back in with Stef and me. That’s off the table now, isn’t it?

The worst timing.

“Misha?”

The old man was grabbing his shoulders, pulling him deeper into the shadows.

“No need to cry over it, son. She’s still your wife, and Stephanie will always be your daughter. There’s plenty of hope.”

Milo wiped his cheeks dry, not even embarrassed anymore. “You don’t actually know that.”

The old man grinned; his dentures were a blinding white. “Sure I do. Unlike you, I’ve been stopping in to visit my daughter-in-law and granddaughter.”

This surprised him. “What did you say?”

“The truth, of course. I told her all about your mother, how she died, and why you kept your childhood, and me, a secret.”

“Did she understand?”

“Really, Misha. You don’t give people enough credit. Least of all your wife.” He rubbed his son’s back. “She knows you’re not able to get in touch now. But when you’re able, I think it wouldn’t be a bad idea to call on her.”

It was the best news he’d gotten in months. For almost a minute, Adriana Stanescu ceased to exist, and he could breathe. Still hungover, yes, but his feet were stable. He cleared his throat and again wiped his face. “Thanks, Yevgeny.”

“Don’t mention it. Let’s go fix your little problem.”

They left five minutes apart, taking separate routes to an apartment near Hausvogteiplatz and its flower-petal fountain. The renovated two-bedroom on the third floor was registered to a Lukas Steiner, marked on the mailboxes Milo passed on his way up. When he asked, Primakov was elusive. “Steiner’s a friend, even if he doesn’t know it. Luckily, he’s on holiday in Egypt. And no,” he added when he saw what was in Milo’s hand, “you can’t smoke in here.”

It took them two hours and a pot of coffee to hammer out a suitable plan. More than once, his father would stop and say, “Look, I know you don’t like it, but killing her might be the only option.”

“It’s not an option.”

Primakov seemed to understand, though his understanding failed him now and then, and he restated his opinion with different words. Finally, Milo struck the dining room table in a childish fit of anger. “Enough! Don’t you get it?”

“But really, Misha-”

“You think I could ever go home again if I did that?”

This obviously hadn’t occurred to him, and he let it go.

The old man occasionally asked casual questions about his life, though since a Tourist’s life is the same as his work, he was in effect requesting intel on his son’s jobs. Milo was too exhausted to bother lying. Besides, the man had saved his life last year, and the sooner he handed over information the sooner he’d be free of that debt. “A robbery. Should be wrapped up in a few days.”

“Robbery? What is it, diamonds? Some politician’s boudoir?”

“Art museum.”

As he stirred his coffee, Primakov seemed to enjoy the images those two words provoked, and then he didn’t. He soured visibly and placed the spoon on the counter. “Zürich?”

“Yes.”

Primakov sipped his coffee. “This is the problem with the world, you know.”

“Is it?”

“No one thinks about the bigger picture anymore, just his own gain. Robbing an art museum is like robbing a library; there’s no integrity to it. Great art hangs in museums for the betterment of society, for the man on the street.”

“For the proletariat?”

“Wipe that smile off your face. It’s the social contract you’ve broken. Not that you care, and not that they care in the Avenue of the Americas. Whose idea was it?”

Milo had seldom seen him so angry. “Mine. I needed to collect money. This was the easiest and quickest way I could think of.”

“Easiest and quickest?” Primakov let out a rare but bitter laugh. “You’ve got a Degas, a Monet, a van Gogh, and a Cézanne-the biggest art heist in Swiss history. How do you expect to sell those off? You think no one’s going to notice?”

“Let me worry about that.”

“Oh yes,” said the old man. “I’ll let you worry about it, because to you those paintings are just a pile of money.” He shook his head. “If I’d raised you, you’d know better.”