…" He dug out his wallet. "And buy a magazine."

"I don't want to."

"For once in your life don't argue with me!"

"Why can't I stay?" The whine was in place.

"You're only a boy. You shouldn't be involved in this."

"A minute ago I was old enough to take an adult interest in adult matters."

"Ancestors!" Tachyon dropped onto the sofa, held his head in his hands.

Polyakov allowed himself a small smile. "Perhaps your grandpapa is right… and this will be boring, Blaise, my child." He dropped a companionable arm over the boy's shoulders and urged him to the door. "Go and amuse yourself while your grandpapa and I discuss darker matters."

"And stay out of trouble." Tach yelled as the door closed on Blaise's heels.

The alien smeared jam on a croissant. Stared at it. Dropped it back onto the plate. "Why can you handle him better than I can?"

"You try to love him. I don't think Blaise responds well to love."

"I don't want to believe that. But what are these dark matters we must discuss?"

Polyakov dropped into a chair, worried his lower lip between thumb and forefinger. "This convention is critical-"

"No joke? No pun intended."

"Shut up and listen!" And suddenly the voice held all the old steel and command it had possessed those long years ago when Victor Demyenov had picked a drunken and shattered Takisian out of the gutters of Hamburg and trained him in the delicate tradecraft of the modern spy. "I need you to do a job for me."

Tachyon backed away, palms out. "No. No more jobs. I've already given you more than I should. Let you back into my life, close to my grandson. What more do you want?"

"Plenty, and I deserve it. You owe me, Dancer. Your omission in London cost me my life, my country. You made me an exile -"

"Just another something we have in common," said Tachyon bitterly.

"Yes. And that boy." Polyakov gestured toward the door. "And a past that cannot be erased."