She left a little before seven. Despite two cups of coffee, Illya felt sleepy and exhausted. He crawled back into her bed, pulling the Princess phone into bed with him. He dialed a New York City number. It took several rings for someone to answer.

“Yes?”

“Alex, this is Vitali.” He knew she recognized his voice, but he wanted to make sure she didn’t use his name, just in case someone else was in her apartment. “I need you to pass a phone number on to your brother. I will be here for another four hours.” He read the number off of Angie Clarkson’s phone.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, sales are going better than I expected. You can tell that to my associates at Theo Industries.” She knew what he meant. Solo’s half-sister, Alexandria Kalivas had often been used to relay messages between the two partners. Theo was uncle in Greek; she knew he wanted her to let Napoleon know that he was all right.

“All right,’ she answered tersely and hung up the phone. She dialed Napoleon’s number, and when he answered, she spoke with a French accent.

“Mon cher,” she cooed. “C’est Marie. Je veux parler avec toi maintenant.”

He recognized her and the code that meant she had important information. “Of course, darling. How about breakfast in a half an hour? The Plaza, our favorite place?”

“Oui,” she said, and hung up the phone. The Plaza was a decoy. He always said the wrong place first and then the right place. Our favorite place meant a coffee shop on Broadway near Columbia University. She wrote a note, detailing Illya’s message and the phone number he had given her. If she and Napoleon were unable to talk, she could slip the message in a menu and have the waitress give it to her brother. She ate there often and knew everyone who worked there well. Napoleon had given her a stack of dissolving paper for passing on information. If something went wrong, a note could be dropped into a cup of coffee with no trace of it left behind.

She was already there when he arrived. She was wearing sunglasses, which signaled Napoleon that she didn’t think she had been followed. He slid next to her into a booth near the back of the coffee shop. A waitress came and poured two cups of coffee. Alexandria took off her glasses, put them in her purse, and pulled out a small sheet of paper. “This is the number he gave me. He is going to be there another three and a half hours or so. He said that everything there was going well.” She looked concerned. “Everything okay?”

“Not yet, but maybe soon.”

“How anyone could think that Illya could…”

“Well, someone worked really hard to make it look that way.”

“But Duncan? That’s absolutely ridiculous.”

“You knew him?”

“Yeah, we trust fund brats stick together. Actually, I met him in a Marxist philosophy class. We talked about the dilemma of trying to mix rich families with radical politics. He was a really nice guy. I hope you not only clear Illya, but also find who killed him.”

“That’s the plan,” said Napoleon. He held his hand over his coffee cup as the waitress came by with the pot. “No thanks.” He turned back to his sister. “I’m going to take off and make that call. Thanks for your help.” Having already memorized the number, he dropped the paper into the cup, watching it dissolve in the coffee. He slid out of the booth and walked out the door, heading for a small shop that he sometimes made calls from.

“Yes?” the slightly accented voice said. Illya hoped that it was Napoleon. If not, he would just say “wrong number” and not answer if someone called back right away. He was relieved to hear his partner’s voice on the line.

“So what have you found?” he asked.

“I have a name for our waitress. And a photo I saw of her in the yearbook makes me believe I met her on the subway the day that I blew up at you in the cafeteria. Her name is Ola Cwiklowski.”

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“Not really. But I have enlisted the help of a teacher who’s trying to find out more about her. She should be back here sometime around one.”

“Where is here?’

“Her house. She was at the school when I broke in last night, and with a little persuasion, she agreed to assist me.”

“Last night? And you’re still at her house this morning? Illya, you know what Mr. Waverly would say to that. I mean, he expects that sort of thing of me, but…”

“But nothing. I just stayed here instead of checking into a hotel. I thought it would attract less attention.” He didn’t think that the rest was any of Napoleon’s business.

“Yeah, I know how you are with the ladies. You spend time guarding Marion Raven, and all you can do is be part of the furniture.” He really didn’t want to insult his friend with everything he had been through, but since the two of them always engaged in cheeky banter, he thought it might put Illya at ease. Sometimes the pretense that everything was all right was all you got; it had to be enough. Actually, sarcasm was one of Illya’s most often-used weapons, whether in a friendly situation or facing Thrush torture.

“While you would be facing the executioner’s sword and still be making a pass.”

“We do what we do best,” Napoleon countered. Growing more serious, he turned back to the business at hand.

“When you get your information, get on the first plane back. Actually, it might be better if you flew into Islip. I’ll have Alex meet you there.”

“Okay,” said Illya. “I will reserve a seat under the name Vitali Bergmann. You can have Alex check flights to see which one I am on so she knows when I will arrive. I will talk to you later tonight.”

“Good luck, tovarisch.” Napoleon hung up the phone. Illya called the airport in St. Louis and found that there was a late flight at 9:30. A one-hour layover in Chicago and then an 11:30 red-eye flight to Islip. He should arrive around 2:30 New York time. Good, the airport would be deserted, he thought. He rolled back into bed. It was almost eight o’clock, and a few hours sleep sounded like a great idea. He set the alarm for eleven and fell into a deep slumber.

Angie arrived around one, carrying her briefcase and a white paper sack. “Country fried steak sandwiches,” she announced. I figured you would be hungry.” She tossed the sack on the kitchen table and went to the freezer for an ice tray. “I have some news,” she said, as she filled two glasses with ice and Diet-Rite cola. “I hope this is okay; it’s all I have.” She set the glasses on the table.

“This is fine. Thank you,” said Illya, opening the sack. “You’re right, I didn’t realize how hungry I was till you brought it up.” He unwrapped the sandwich. “What did you find out about Ola?”

She sat down and reached for a turquoise cigarette case, lighting a cigarette before relaying her information. “I was right about Patti. I just mentioned Ola’s name, and she gave me half her life story.” She took a sip of cola and reached across the table for the ashtray. Illya listened intently but continued to work on the sandwich.

“Well, it seems that Ola’s mother was raised here in Sikeston. But when she finished school, she went to New York. Got involved with some kind of gangster or something. She had Ola, then the brother a year later. Never did get married to the guy. When the kids were two and three, she moved back here, took a minimum wage job, and moved in with the kids in a trailer park. Supplemented her income with tricks. Anyway, it was a pretty big scandal, Patti said. I was a child when it happened so I don’t remember any of this. Some guy she is with goes crazy and cuts her throat. The kids are in the trailer, and the next morning police find Ola sitting on the floor holding her mother’s hand, covered in her blood. The boy was hiding under his bed. The kids are both put into foster care and bop around between homes until Ola finishes high school. Then she takes off and comes back two years later for the brother.”

“What about their father?”

“Nobody really knows too much about him. Patti said that she got the impression that he was kind of a two-bit gangster when he was with Trisha – Ola’s mother – but she thinks he made it big later. Ola used to tell everyone that her father was a real powerful guy, and that when she finished school, she was going to live with him. She told one of her teachers that she found his picture in a box of her mother’s stuff. Maybe she had an address, too.”

“Any clue to his name?”

“Maybe. I checked the files of graduates before I left. There was a request for a transcript for both of them, Ola and Robert, asking that they be sent to this address in New York.” She reached into her purse and handed a slip of paper to Illya.

He read aloud. “Ola Cwiklowski, care of Michael Harrison, 64 East Eighty-third Street.” He frowned, trying to pull an image from his memory. “Michael Harrison.” Suddenly, he leapt from his chair and threw his arms around Angie. “It makes sense now. It all makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“Why I was set up.” He took his seat again. “Michael Harrison was one of the leaders in New York of an international crime organization. Promoted the use of biological weapons as a tool to blackmail governments out of large sums of money. We discovered his plot to use it in at the United Nations after he tried it, rather successfully, on a village in the Andes. Over three hundred people in a village wiped out in less than forty-eight hours. We burned the village after we gathered up the few survivors; they only lived a few days.”

“My god!”

“We had him and his henchmen surrounded. He almost got away, but I pursued him and shot him.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, just wounded him enough that he couldn’t escape. He was tried and sentenced to life in prison. I heard that he committed suicide six months later. I guess they blame me for his death.”

“Is this enough to clear you?”

“Maybe, but it would help if we could find them. I have to leave for St. Louis by four. I have a late flight back to New York.”

“So we have a couple hours?” she asked in a coquettish voice.