“It’s not going to be easy for you,” he said now to the young man lounging in the shell-shaped chair.

“How’s that?”

“I don’t want Mr. Mulholland to come to hear of you and what you’re doing. You understand?”

He turned-too quickly, making his head spin-and gave Dylan Riley what he hoped was a hard look. But Riley was gazing at the ceiling again, gnawing on the nail of his left little finger, and might not have been listening.

“That’s my job,” Riley said, “to be discreet. Anyway, you’d be surprised how much information-detail, as you say-is on record, if you know where to look for it.”

Glass suddenly wanted to be rid of the fellow. “Have you a standard contract?” he asked brusquely.

“A contract? I don’t do contracts.” Riley smiled slyly. “I trust you.”

“Oh, yes? I didn’t think you’d trust anyone, given the nature of your work.”

Riley stood up from the chair and adjusted the crotch of his sagging jeans with scooping gestures of both hands. He really was an unappetizing person. “‘The nature of my work’?” he said. “I’m a researcher, Mr. Glass. That’s all.”

“Yes, but you find things out, and surely sometimes the things you find out are not to the taste of your employers, never mind the people they are having researched.”

Riley gave him a long, piercing look, putting his head on one side and narrowing his eyes. “You said Big Bill has no guilty secrets.”

“I said I expect none.”

“I’m here to tell you, everybody has secrets, mostly guilty ones.”

Glass turned toward the door, drawing the young man with him. “You’ll get to work straightaway,” he said, a statement not a question. “When can I expect to hear from you?”

“I’ve got to get my head around this, get organized, decide priorities.