The man had grasped his knee with both hands, blood pumping through. "What have you done to me? They didn't say it would be like this."

"I've crippled you, you bastard," Miller said. "Hollow-point cartridges. Now, speak up, or I'll give it to you in the other knee as well. Who's 'they'?"

"I don't know. I'm a free lance. People contact me, I provide a service."

"You mean you're a professional hit man?"

"That's it. I got a call. I don't know who it was. There was a package, I don't know who from. A photo of you staying at the Plaza, with instructions, and two thousand dollars in hundreds."

"And you don't know who the client was? That's hard to believe. Why would they trust you?"

"You mean trust me with the money? That's the way it works. Take the money and run, and I'd be the target next time. Now, for the love of God, man, help me."

"Where's the money?"

"In the bank."

"Well, there you go," Miller said. "I'll keep your wallet and cards and leave you your mobile. Call an ambulance and say you've been mugged. No point in trying to involve me. For what you tried to pull, you'd get twenty years in Ossining, or maybe you've already done time there? Maybe you're a three-time loser."

"Just fuck off," the man said.

"Yes, I thought you'd say that." Miller turned and walked rapidly away, leaving the man to make his call.

In the two-bedroom suite they were sharing at the Plaza, Dillon was standing at his bathroom mirror adjusting a tie as black as his shirt. His jacket, like his slacks, was black corduroy, and he reached for it and pulled it on.

"Will I do?" he asked as Miller walked in the door.

"In that outfit, Putin is going to think the undertaker's come for him."

"Away with you. You hardly ever see old Vladimir wearing anything but a black suit. It's his personal statement."

"The hard man, you mean? Never mind that now. We need to talk."