There were two messages waiting at the hotel. James Einner wanted to know if everything had gone as planned, though he worded it as "Has the money been transferred yet?" Milo crumpled that into his pocket. The other message, blank, was from Grainger, signed "Father." Despite already having a buzz from lunch, once in his room he poured a tiny vodka from his fridge into a glass. He opened the high French windows and leaned out to look down on the rush-hour gridlock of the Rue Saint-Philippe du Roule. He lit a cigarette before dialing.

Tina answered drowsily. "Yeah?"

"Darling, it's me."

"Which one?"

"The stupid one."

"Oh. Milo. Still in Paris?"

"Yeah. How're things?"

"I don't know. Just getting up. You sound-are you drunk?"

"Actually, a little."

"What time's it there?"

He checked his watch. "Nearly three."

"I guess that's all right."

"Listen, I might not get back until Sunday."

Silence, then the noise of sheets as she sat up straight. "Why?"

"Things arc kind of complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“Not dangerous."

"Okay," she said. "You know when our plane leaves, right?”

“Monday, ten in the morning.”

“And if you're not here by then…”

“I'll be vacationing on my own."

"I'm glad that's understood," she said as he took a drag of his cigarette. "Hold it, mister.”

“What?”

“You're smoking"

He tried to sound offended: "I'm not"

"You're in a whole heap of trouble," Tina said, then: "Hey, baby."

"Hey what?"

"Stef's here." Her voice muted slightly as she said, "Wanna talk to your daddy?"

"Why would I?" he heard Stephanie say.

"Be nice," said Tina, and after a moment Stephanie came on.

"This is Stephanie Weaver. To whom am I speaking?"

"You're speaking to Milo Weaver," he said.

"Very nice to speak to you."

"Stop it!" he screamed, and she started laughing. Once the fit had passed, she slipped back into her six years and babbled about every single event that had filled her Thursday. It was mesmerizing stuff.

"You called him what?"

"Sam Aston is a jerk, Dad. He called me prissy. So I called him a dirty rat. What do you expect?"

Once she'd run out of stories, Tina came back on and made veiled threats about what might happen if he didn't make it back in time. Milo made veiled whimpers. When he hung up, left with only the noise of the traffic, the world seemed a little deader. He called Grainger.

"What?" the old man shouted.

"It's me, Tom."

"Oh. Sorry, Milo.”

“What was that about?"

"Nothing. Did everything work out? It's done?"

Below him, the traffic was getting loud, so he stepped back from the window. "Yeah."

"See what I told you? Fly home tonight and you won't miss a minute of your vacation."

"Is Einner running surveillance?"

"What surveillance?"

"You're not just waiting to see if that report turns up in Beijing, are you?"

"Oh. Of course not. Yes, he's running it.”

“Then I'm going to float a little."

Grainger cleared his throat. "I don't know why you're making trouble over this."

"Because she's innocent."

"Has Einner shown you his evidence yet?"

"I don't need to see evidence, Tom. We spoke for nearly two hours. She's innocent."

"One hundred percent sure?"

"Let's say, ninety-seven."

"Three percent's enough to go on. You know that.”

“But she's doing important work here," Milo persisted. "I'd hate to see that compromised."

"She's a security chief, Milo. It's not rocket science."

"She's trailing the Tiger."

Silence.

"Don't play stupid, Tom. You sent her photos of him months ago. Why didn't you tell me?"

" Milo," he said, his tone vaguely authoritative, "don't pretend to know everything that's going on here, okay? I made a decision that seemed correct at the time. And besides, she wanted to keep it quiet. I respected that."

"Sure."

"So, what's she got?"

"She has a lot more than I ever pulled together. She has him on video at the Marseille branch of the Union Bank of Switzerland, withdrawing his fee for killing Michel Bouchard. Three hundred grand. She followed the account to Zurich, set up by a Rolf Vinterberg."

"Vinterberg," Grainger said slowly, perhaps writing this down.

"Fact is, we should've had her working on the Tiger from the beginning. We would've caught him years ago. Compared to her, I'm a dunce."

"Consider that noted, Milo. But if she's trading secrets, I want to know.”

“Okay."

"You're not going to make trouble for him, are you?"

"Who?"

"Einner."

"You know me, Tom. I'm just happy to be of help."

He returned to the park after four, having changed into something less obvious-a T-shirt and jeans, the earplugs of his iPod on view beneath a trilby hat he'd grabbed from a shop near the hotel. With sunglasses, it was enough of a disguise to avoid easy detection from the embassy's cameras, but wouldn't hold up to scrutiny. He didn't think he'd need that.

Einner's old woman had been replaced by an old man in a grimy Members Only jacket who leaned back on the bench, his face to the sun, a soiled plastic bag balled up beside him. Einner's flower van was still parked along Avenue Gabriel.

There wasn't much to do until five, so Milo let himself be taken away by the iPod mix-his French sixties was continuing, and he hoped it could raise his spirits. More France Gall, some pre-children's-music Chantal Goya, Jane Birkin, Francoise Hardy, Anna Karina, and Brigitte Bardot with Gainsbourg, singing "Comic Strip":

SHEBAM! POW! BLOP! WIZZ!

By 5:10 p.m., the park was full of people heading home. Even the old man was sitting up, turning to look toward the embassy.

From his position, Milo couldn't see the embassy gate, so he started walking toward Avenue Gabriel, holding the iPod near his face, as if having trouble with it. But he stared ahead at the old man, who got slowly to his feet in an imitation of old bones, then crouched to fool with his shoelaces.

Milo, too, had to hide his face, because Angela had passed the fleurs van and was walking in their direction, heading east through the park to the Place de la Concorde metro station. Milo, among the crowd, turned casually away from her. The old man followed Angela away.

Milo hurried toward Gabriel and reached the van as it was beginning to reverse out of its tight parallel parking situation. He rapped on the tinted rear window and waited.

Einner didn't answer immediately, probably looking out at Milo 's face and wondering if he'd go away. Then he made up his mind and popped open the door. His lips were in terrible shape-it looked like he'd been chewing them. "What the hell are you doing here, Weaver?"

"Give me a lift?"

"Get out of here. Go home."

He started to pull the door shut again, but Milo put himself in the way. "Please, James. I need to come along.”

“What you need to do is get home."

"Come on," Milo said, making friendly. "If you have to pick her up, it'll be easier with me. She won't run if I'm there." Einner considered that. "Honestly," Milo said. "I just want to help.”

“Did you clear this with Tom?”

“Call him if you want."

Einner pushed the door open again and grinned to show that he wasn't such a bad sport. "You look like an over-the-hill teenager."

Milo didn't bother telling him what he looked like.

Einner's mobile control center was an elaborate affair consisting of two laptops, two flat-screen monitors connected to a mainframe, a generator, and a microphone and speakers. The seats had been moved flat against the right wall, facing the equipment. It made for a tight fit, particularly since the embassy lightweight behind the wheel drove by punching the pedals. The whole way to Angela's apartment in the Eleventh Arrondissement, Einner remained in radio contact with his shadows. They reported that Angela had boarded the metro, gotten out at Place de la Nation, and taken the long walk up tree-lined Avenue Philippe Auguste to her apartment on Rue Alexandre Dumas.