The sky was heavy with pre-dawn grayness. She realized that she had spent most of the night in custody. Traffic was light. There were few pedestrians at this hour. Margo kept the hood of her raincoat up and her head down, in the hope that the night would disguise her blackness—a clue that would otherwise lead the DS to her in minutes. The cold, freshening rain helped. Nobody was making eye contact. Everyone was hurrying, umbrellas or newspapers over their heads. She walked fast, but not too fast, keeping the cathedral’s golden belfry ahead and to her right. She guessed the distance at about half a mile. From what she remembered, the consulate would be three blocks farther on. She had no idea whether it was staffed at this hour, but she had no other plan. She wondered, in a vague way, why Agatha, the minder who scared well-trained intelligence officers, had left her to her fate rather than riding to her rescue. She wondered, too, whether Fomin realized how much he had told her by the questions he asked.
