He spotted his host, Ferd Dempsey, at the far side of the long room in heated discussion with two other obvious Americans and turned off in another direction. Ferd was in his arguing stage. Two drinks more and he’d start reciting quatrains from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. At that point, Quint usually made a practice of going home.

Somebody said, “Hi, Quint. Long time, no see.” The words were American but the accent was Spanish.

He turned and said, “Hello, Senor Garcia.”

“Joe to you,” the other told him. He was a man of middles. Middle age, middle height—given his lift heels—middle in weight. The man was a hanger-on of the foreign colony, and especially the Americans. Quint Jones didn’t particularly like him, for no particular reasons. Like the rest of the group, he used Jose Garcia Mendez when he needed some red tape cutting, or some information pertaining to life in Madrid. How to locate an apartment. Where to find a maid. How to keep your car in Spain after the six months legal deadline had elapsed. And, like the rest of the group, was hence obligated to tolerate the man.

A maid went by with a tray of entremeses and Quint snagged one. The Dempseys were doing themselves well tonight. They’d remembered to serve food. Often enough, Ferd and Marty, when on a binge, couldn’t stand the sight of refreshments other than alcoholic ones. But for that matter, the party seemed out of the usual, anyway. Quint Jones couldn’t put his finger on just why.

He said, to make conversation, “Seems to be a lot of newcomers around tonight.”

Garcia nodded, sipped his champagne, wiped his mustache dry with a forefinger. “Should be some fun and games before the evening’s through, eh? You know who that sleazy looking character is over there?” He indicated direction with his head, but before Quint could answer said, “Vladimir Nuriyev. Nice guy, Vlad. Used to be a top hatchetman for the Chrezvychainaya Komissiya. Killed more innocent people than the plague. I doubt if it was a matter of his conscience ever hurting him. The story has it that the C.I.A. paid him a hundred grand to defect and spill his guts. So he’s spending it here in Spain. Where else?”