"My name's Jacob Kanon," he said in English. "I'm sorry I scared you.

I'm on the homicide unit in the Thirty-second Precinct of Manhattan, in New York City."

She looked at the disk. Was that supposed to be an American police badge? She had seen them on television only. This one looked like it could easily have been bought in a toyshop.

"Do you speak English? Do you understand anything I'm saying?"

She nodded and looked up at the man. He was hardly any tal er than she was, with broad shoulders and strong biceps, and he was blocking her escape route down the stairs.

He had a powerful presence but appeared to have lost weight recently. His jeans had slid down and were hanging on his narrow hips. His suede jacket was good quality but badly creased, as though he'd been sleeping in it.

"It's real y important that you listen to what I've got to say," he said.

She looked careful y at his eyes, which were bright blue and sparkling.

Quite the opposite of everything else about him.

"They're here, and they're going to kil again," he said.

Chapter 8

Jacob felt the adrenaline pulling like barbed wire through his veins.

He had never been so quick out of the gate before, only a day or so behind them: before the murders took place, before the pictures of the bodies, before their flight to yet another city.

"I have to find a way into the investigation," he said. "At once, right fucking now."

The reporter stumbled a little and steadied herself against the wal behind her. Her eyes were wide and watchful. He'd frightened her badly. He hadn't meant to.

"If I'm the kil ers' contact," she said, "who's yours?"

Her voice was dark, a little hoarse. Her English was perfect but spoken with a strange accent. He looked at her in silence for a few moments.

"Who interviewed you?" Jacob asked. "What's his name, what unit's he on? Is there a prosecutor involved yet? What safety measures have been taken?