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all blackboard on which was chalked “Mike McAra。” Even his eyes were as I had imagined McAra’s to be： crafty and colorless。
He was chewing gum。 He nodded to my suitcase。 “You okay with that。” It was a statement； not a question； but I didn’t care。 I’d never been more pleased to hear a New York accent in my life。 He turned on his heel and I followed him across the hall and out into the pandemonium of the night： shrieks； whistles； slamming doors； the fight to grab a cab； sirens in the distance。
He brought round his car； wound down his window； and beckoned to me to get in quickly。 As I struggled to get my case into the backseat； he stared straight ahead； his hands on the wheel； discouraging conversation。 Not that there was much time to talk。 Barely had we left the perimeter of the airport than we were pulling up in front of a big； glass…fronted hotel and conference center overlooking Grand Central Parkway。 He grunted as he shifted his heavy body round in his seat to address me。 The car stank of his sweat and I had a moment of pure existential horror； staring beyond him； through the drizzle； to that bleak and anonymous building： what； in the name of God； was I doing？
“If you need to make contact； use this；” he said； giving me a brand…new cell phone； still in its plastic wrapper。 “There’s a chip inside with twenty dollars’ worth of calls on it。 Don’t use your old phone。 The safest thing is to turn it off。 You pay for your room in advance； with cash。 Have you got enough？ It’ll be about three hundred bucks。”
I nodded。
“You’re staying one night。 You have a reservation。” He wriggled his fat wallet out from his back pocket。 “This is the card you use to guarantee the extras。 The name on the card is the name you register under。 Use an address in the United Kingdom that isn’t your own。 If thereare any extras； make sure you pay for them in cash。 This is the telephone number you use to make contact in future。”
“You used to be a cop；” I said。 I took the credit card and a torn…out strip of paper with a number written on it in a childish hand。 The paper and plastic were warm from the heat of his body。
“Don’t use the internet。 Don’t speak to strangers。 And especially avoid any women who might try to come on to you。”
“You sound like my mother。”
His face didn’t flicker。 We sat there for a few seconds。 “Well；” he said impatiently。 He waved a meaty hand at me。 “That’s it。”
Once I was through the revolving glass door and inside the lobby； I checked the name on the card。 Clive Dixon。 A big conference had just ended。 Scores of delegates wearing black suits with bright yellow lapel badges were pouring across the wide expanse of white marble； chattering to one another like a flight of crows。 They looked eager； purposeful； motivated； newly fired up to meet their corporate targets and personal goals。 I saw from their badges they belonged to a church。 Above our heads； great glass globes of light hung from a ceiling a hundred feet high and shimmered on walls of chrome。 I wasn’t just out of my depth anymore； I was out of sight of land。
“I have a reservation； I believe；” I said to the clerk at the desk； “in the name of Dixon。”
It’s not an alias I’d have chosen。 I don’t think of myself as a Dixon； whatever a Dixon is。 But the receptionist was untroubled by my embarrassment。 I was on his computer； that was all that mattered to him； and my card was good。 The room rate was two hundred and seventy…five dollars。 I filled out the reservation form and gave as my false address the number of Kate’s small terraced house in Shepherd’s Bush and the street of Rick’s London club。 When I said I wanted to pay in cash； he took the notes between his finger and thumb as if they were the strangest things he had ever seen。Cash？ If I’d tied a mule to his desk and offered to pay him in animal skins and sticks that I’d spent the winter carving； he couldn’t have looked more nonplussed。
I declined to be assisted with my bags； took the elevator to the sixth floor； and stuck the electronic key card into the door。 My room was beige and softly lit by table lamps； with a view across Grand Central Parkway to LaGuardia and the unfathomable blackness of the East River。 The TV was playing “I’ll Take Manhattan” over a caption that read “Welcome to New York Mr。 Nixon。” I turned it off and opened the minibar。 I didn’t even bother to find a glass。 I unscrewed the cap and drank straight from the miniature bottle。
It must have been about twenty minutes and a second miniature later that my new telephone suddenly glowed blue and began to emit a faintly ominous electronic purr。 I left my post at the window to answer it。
“It’s me；” said Rycart。 “Have you settled in？”
“Yes；” I said。
“Are you alone？”
“Yes。”
“Open the door； then。”
He was standing in the corridor； his phone to his ear。 Beside him was the driver who had met me at LaGuardia。
“All right； Frank；” said Rycart to his minder。 “I’ll take it from here。 You keep an eye out in the lobby。”
Rycart slipped his phone into the pocket of his overcoat as Frank plodded back toward the elevators。 He was what my mother would have called “handsome； and knows it”： a striking profile； narrowly set bright blue eyes accentuated by an orangey tan； and that swept…back waterfall of hair the cartoonists loved so much。 He looked a lot younger than sixty。 He nodded at the empty bottle in my hand。 “Tough day？”
“You could say that。”
He came into the room without waiting for an invitation and went straight over to the window and drew the curtains。 I closed the door。
“My apologies for the location；” he said； “but I tend to be recognized in Manhattan。 Especially after yesterday。 Did Frank look after you all right？”
“I’ve rarely had a warmer welcome。”
“I know what you mean； but he’s a useful guy。 Ex…NYPD。 He handles logistics and security for
me。 I’m not the most popular kid on the block right now； as you can imagine。”
“Can I get you something to drink？”
“Water would be fine。”
He prowled around the room while I poured him a glass。 He checked the bathroom； even the
closet。
“What is it？” I said。 “Do you think this is a trap？”
“It crossed my mind。” He unbuttoned his coat and laid it carefully on the bed。 I guessed his
Armani suit cost about twice the annual income of a small African village。 “Let’s face it； you do work for Lang。”
“I met him for the first time on Monday；” I said。 “I don’t even know him。”
Rycart laughed。 “Who does？ If you met him on Monday you probably know him as well as anyone。 I worked with him for fifteen years； and I certainly don’t have a clue where he’s coming from。 Mike McAra didn’t； either； and he was with him from the beginning。”
“His wife said more or less the same thing to me。”
“Well； there you go。 If someone as sharp as Ruth doesn’t get him—and she’s married to him； for God’s sake—what hope do the rest of us have？ The man’s a mystery。 Thanks。” Rycart took the water。