It was dark when the telephone rang in the kitchen. Hardy, gun in hand, woke up from another of his fitful dozes, flicked on the kitchen light and got to it before the second ring.

“Rusty?”

“Who’s Rusty?”

A woman’s voice, far away, crackled on the wire after a short delay.

Hardy’s head was clearing. “God, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Were you asleep?”

The clock on the stove read 3:10. “It’s three o’clock in the morning here,” he said. “I was just jogging around the neighborhood and happened to hear the phone.”

“In the morning? I can’t get this straight at all.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t even know what day it is. There, I mean.”

“That’s all right. I’m right here and I don’t know what day it is.”

“And who’s Rusty?”

Jane was halfway around the world and there was no need to worry her. “My old office mate. I was just having a dream, I guess.”

He held the telephone’s mouthpiece in one hand and became aware of the gun in the other. He almost thought of telling her then. Look, sweetie, I’m standing in my kitchen holding a loaded.38 Special and I am considering the possibility that someone, who’s probably good at it, is trying to kill me. But don’t worry. Have a good time in Hong Kong. Don’t think about lions. What he did was ask her how her trip was going. “Good, except it looks like I’ve got to stay another week, maybe ten days.”

“Peachy.”

Silence.

“Dismas?”

“I’m here. I was just doing a few cartwheels.”

“This happens, you know.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’d just like to see you.”

“Me, too.” She went on to explain about the vagaries of supply in the East. Ships carrying thousands of bolts of material from the labor-cheap factories in the Philippines, Thailand and Korea coming in to Hong Kong to be made into designer clothes by the-relatively-labor-cheap tailors there.