The fog coiled up around his calves, tentatively touching the hem of his khaki raincoat. He moved only one enormous hand, delivering a thin brown cigarette to his lips. The acrid smoke drifted through the night’s damp to where Raina Manhardt hid in the recessed doorway. She digested his presence, his words, and the message intended to make her his tool:You’re officially reactivated, Glinda. He continued in English in his low, hypnotic basso: “What? No comment? No expression of excitement? Now, now, you must be of good cheer, because I may be able to help. If you’d like to hear what I know, come walk with me.” Without a glance at her, he resumed his stroll through the creeping mist, swinging his umbrella. “Oh, and do me a favor, will you?” His voice trailed back. “Put that damn gun away. I never embark on a friendly conversation when a weapon’s pointed at me.” She looked around warily. She did not understand how he—how anyone—could have found her. Had he come alone?
