I leant backwards a little in my chair, simultaneously glancing over at Van Loon and his friend. Set against the walnut panelling, the two billionaires looked like large,

predatory birds perched deep in some arid canyon – but ageing ones, with drooping heads and rheumy eyes, old buzzards. Van Loon was involved in a detailed

explanation of how he’d been driven to sound-proofing his previous jet, a Challenger something-or-other, and it was during this little monologue that a curious thing

happened in my brain. Like a radio receiver automatically switching frequencies, it closed out Carl Van Loon’s voice, ‘… you see, to avoid undue vibrations, you need

these isolator things to wrap around the bolts that connect the interior to the airframe – silicone rubber isolators, I think they’re called …’ and started receiving the voice

of the guy behind me, ‘… in a big hotel downtown somewhere … it was on a news bulletin earlier … yeah, Donatella Alvarez, the painter’s wife, found on the floor of a

hotel room, she’d been attacked apparently, blow to the head … and now she’s in a coma – but it seems they’ve got a lead already – a cleaner at the hotel saw

someone leaving the place early this morning, someone with a limp …’

I pushed my chair back a little.

… someone with a limp …

The voice behind me droned on, ‘… and of course her being Mexican doesn’t help with all of this stuff going on …’

I stood up, and for a split second it felt as if everyone in the restaurant had stopped what they were doing, had put their knives and forks down and were looking up,

expecting me to address them – but they hadn’t, of course, and weren’t. Only Carl Van Loon was looking up at me, a mild flicker of concern in his eyes suddenly

lurching into overdrive. I mouthed the word bathroom at him, turned away and started walking. I went quickly, moving between tables, and around tables, looking for

the nearest exit.

But then I noticed someone approaching from the other side of the room – a short, balding man in a grey suit. It was Hank Atwood. I recognized him from magazine

photographs. A second later we were passing each other, shuffling awkwardly between two tables, grunting politely. For a brief moment we were so close that I could

smell his cologne.

*

I got outside on to Fifty-second Street and took in huge gulps of air. As I stood there on the sidewalk, looking around me, I had the sense that by joining the busy

crowds out here I’d forfeited my right to be in the Grill Room, and that I wouldn’t be allowed back inside.

But right now I had no intention of going back inside, and about twenty minutes later I found myself wandering aimlessly down Park Avenue South, consciously

suppressing my limp, racking my memory to see if I could recall anything. But there was nothing … I had been in a hotel room and could even see myself walking down

an empty hotel corridor. But that was it, everything else was a blank.

I didn’t really believe, though … I mean … I didn’t … I couldn’t …

*

For the next half-hour, I walked – cutting left at Union Square, then right on First – and arrived back at my building in a complete daze. I walked up the stairs, holding

on to the notion that perhaps I’d been hearing things in the restaurant, that I’d imagined it – that it had simply been another blip, a glitch. In any case, I was going to find

out pretty soon, because if this thing really had happened, it would still be on the news, so all I had to do was tune in to the radio, or switch on one of the local TV

channels …

But the first thing I noticed when I got into the apartment was the little red light flashing on my answering machine. Almost glad of the distraction, I reached down at

once and flicked the ‘play’ button. Then I just stood there in my suit, like an idiot, staring out across the room, waiting to hear the message.

There was the low hum as the tape rewound, and then – click.

Beeep.

‘Hi … Eddie. It’s Melissa. I’ve been meaning to call you, I really have, but … you know how it is ….’ Her voice was a little heavy, and a little slurred, but it was still

Melissa’s voice, still Melissa, disembodied, filling up my living-room – ‘Then something occurred to me, my brother … was he giving you anything? I mean – I don’t

want to talk about this over the phone, but … was he? Because …’ – I heard ice-cubes clinking in a glass – ‘… because if he was, you should know something … that

stuff …’ – she paused here, as though composing herself – ‘that stuff – MDT-whatever – is really, really dangerous – I mean, you don’t know how dangerous.’ I

swallowed, and closed my eyes. ‘So look, Eddie, I don’t know, maybe I’m wrong – but … just call me, OK … call me.’

PART THREE

[ 15 ]

A TV NEWSCAST AT TWO O’CLOCK confirmed that Donatella Alvarez, the wife of the Mexican painter, had received a severe blow to the head and was now in a coma.

The incident had taken place in a room on the fifteenth floor of a midtown hotel. There were few details given, and no mention was made of any man with a limp.