“You’ve been living in America?” the man asked.

“What the hell is your name?”

“Jeremy Barnes,” he said, blowing a Gauloise in my direction.

“Oh, and I’m Samantha Caudwell,” the woman said in an even more upper-class accent than Jeremy’s. The sort of snide Queen’s English Olivia de Havilland used when she was badgering Errol Flynn in those films from the 1930s.

The smoke from the cigarette drifted over. Only pseuds and poseurs smoked Gauloises. Jeremy, however, seemed not to be either of these.

“You’ve lived in Paris,” I said, surprising Jeremy with a good guess. Jeremy looked a little taken aback but quickly recovered his poise.

“Yes, yes indeed. They told us you were good,” Jeremy said.

“Who’s they?”

“The FBI. The U.S. Marshals Service. We’ve read your file, Brian, or should I say, Michael. We know everything about you.”

“Aye?” I said, trying to appear casual.

“Yes. Shall I tell you what we know?”

“Maybe you should tell me a wee bit about yourself first,” I said.

“No, I don’t think so, old chap. Would you like a drink?” Jeremy asked and threw a flask onto the cot.

“I’d like water.”

Jeremy tossed me the water bottle.

“Good idea. Water first, then the brandy,” Jeremy said. “Ok.”

I drank the half-liter bottle of water, unscrewed the hip flask, and took a sip of brandy. I threw the flask back.

“Your name is not Brian O’Nolan. Your real name is Michael Forsythe. You went to America in 1992 to work for Darkey White. You ended up killing Darkey White and wiping out his entire gang. You turned informer and the American government set you up with a new identity. I gather that recently you’ve been living in Chicago,” Jeremy intoned placidly.