A wall of corrugated iron lay before them, its length daubed with graffiti. Beyond it, visible through gaps where the iron had been torn into ragged wings and beaten back, was a junkyard in which trailers were parked. This was apparently their destination.

"Are you out of your mind?" he said, leaning forward to take hold of Chant's shoulder. "We're not safe here."

"I promised you the best assassin in England, Mr. Esta-brook, and he's here. Trust me, he's here."

Estabrook growled in fury and frustration. He'd expected a clandestine rendezvous—curtained windows, locked doors—not a gypsy encampment. This was altogether too public and too dangerous. Would it not be the perfect irony to be murdered in the middle of an assignation with an assassin?

He leaned back against the creaking leather of his seat and said, "You've let me down."

"I promise you this man is a most extraordinary individual," Chant said. "Nobody in Europe comes remotely close. I've worked with him before."

"Would you care to name the victims?"

Chant looked around at his employer and, in faintly admonishing tones, said, "I haven't presumed upon your privacy, Mr. Estabrook. Please don't presume upon mine."

Estabrook gave a chastened grunt.

"Would you prefer we go back to Chelsea?" Chant went on. "I can find somebody else for you. Not as good, perhaps, but in more congenial surroundings."

Chant's sarcasm wasn't lost on Estabrook, nor could he resist the recognition that this was not a game he should have entered if he'd hoped to stay lily-white. "No, no," he said. "We're here, and I may as well see him. What's his name?"