Veles asked sharply. “Poking around the records,” Thwaites replied. He had asked for a meeting with Veles in one of the private rooms at the Duquesne Club. Veles refused, wanting somewhere more discreet, and since Veles had no intention of having Thwaites intrude on his own home, he was obliged to come to Thwaites’s brownstone again. Tonight, Thwaites looked scared. “What did you learn?” Veles prodded. He leaned against the wall next to the parlor’s massive fireplace. “Not much.” Thwaites said, wringing his hands. He began to pace, a fine sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. “He knew our men were going to kill him. There was no advantage to giving up information. They said it was clear he was a professional.” “Any identification?” Thwaites shook his head. “Not on him—at least, nothing real. A phony union card, a few dollars. When we checked him out, the address he gave was a boarded-up store. My men asked around. Everyone said the guy was pretty new, but he asked a lot of questions.”
