Fox switched off the machine. 'The bitch.'

'So it would appear, Signore. What should we do?'

Fox got up, went to the sideboard, and poured a glass of Scotch. He turned. 'I think you know, old friend.' He went to the telephone and punched in a number. 'Katherine Johnson, please. Hello, Kate? Jack Fox. Would you be free for dinner tonight? I was thinking about that piece, and, what the hell, there's some more you might be interested in… You are? Terrific. Listen, don't bother going home. I'll send a car. You come on over to Park Avenue and pick me up. We've just bought this new restaurant in Brooklyn, and I'd like to check it out. Will you help?… Great! I'll send Falcone to pick you up.' He put the phone down, surprised at the genuine regret he felt.

In that evening of dreary rain, darkness already descending, she sat in the rear of the Lincoln, a small, pretty woman of forty, with dark hair and an intelligent face. Russo was at the wheel and Falcone beside him. They reached the Park Avenue house and Falcone called Fox on his mobile.

'Hey, Signore, we're here.' He turned. 'He'll be right down.'

She smiled and took out a Marlboro. Falcone gave her a light.

'Thank you.'

'Prego, Signora.'

He dosed the glass divide between them, and a moment later, Fox arrived, wearing a black overcoat. He scrambled in and kissed her on the cheek.

'Kate, you look good.'

The Lincoln took off.

'You look pretty good yourself.'

He smiled amiably. 'Well, here's to a good night.'

At that precise moment, Terry Mount was swallowing another whisky sour in a downtown bar, aware of the bulge that seventeen thousand dollars now made in his right hand breast pocket. He went out into the street, drew up his collar as rain dashed in his face, started along the pavement, and sensed someone move in behind him, and then a needlepoint going through his clothes.