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reproachfully, “but alcohol isn’t one of them. That had to be the most transparent lie you’ve ever told.”
    â€œActually,” Michaelson said, “I believe I told a slightly more transparent lie to the Saudi oil minister in 1978. He didn’t believe me, though, so perhaps it doesn’t count.”
    â€œWhat are you looking for?” she asked as he began rummaging through an attaché case that sat open on the bed.
    â€œScott Pilkington’s number at work. I want to leave a message on his voice mail so that he’ll get it first thing tomorrow. Mention that a cowboy’s about to ride through his little patch with a very large amount of money and a very small amount of discretion.”
    â€œDo you anticipate adding something to the effect that where this particular cowboy’s concerned you have the last ticket to the ball, so if Pilkington wants to come he’ll have to dance with you?”
    â€œThat might come up,” Michaelson said. “ If I can find that blessed number.”
    â€œHere,” Marjorie said, offering him a palm-sized computer.
    Michaelson took the machine and saw Pilkington’s number blinking on the screen.
    â€œYou did see this coming, didn’t you?” he commented as he picked up the phone.
    â€œAs soon as he pulled that piece of paper out.”
    Marjorie waited patiently while Michaelson completed the call and left his message.
    â€œNow,” she said when he’d finished. “Would you please tell me the real reason you’re doing what you carefully explained to me earlier this evening was exactly the wrong thing to do?”
    â€œI’m at an age for sunsets and poetry,” Michaelson said. “I’m not going to save the world or renew the country’s spirit or even demilitarize the oil routes. But maybe I can keep one man from going bitter and obsessed into the last half of his middle age.”
    â€œFair enough,” Marjorie said. “A bit romantic for a hardheaded, unsentimental realist in his sixties, but fair enough.”
    â€œI still remember the action stateside twenty-five years ago when the Bengali uprising broke out in what was then East Pakistan,” Michaelson said. “When things finally got too dicey, we sent the standard evacuation order to our mission in Dacca: ‘women, children, and nonessential men.’” He glanced over at Marjorie, meeting her eyes. “I may be in my sixties, but I’m not quite ready for the nonessential men category yet.”

Chapter Seven
    Pilkington didn’t call until Wednesday. When he did, he wanted to know if, by any wild chance, the Gallagher chap mentioned in Michaelson’s voice-mail message had followed up. Michaelson said that as a matter of fact he had.
    â€œAnd?” Pilkington prompted.
    â€œBarring a police breakthrough in the Bedford investigation, we’re meeting on Sunday.”
    â€œThen you and I had better meet on Saturday.”
    â€œWhere and when?” Michaelson asked.
    â€œFourish at Dunsinane.”
    â€œDon’t you think Dunsinane is overdoing it a bit?”
    â€œNo doubt. See you there.”
    ***
    Michaelson hadn’t been idle while he waited for Pilkington’s call. He’d talked at length to Wendy Gardner, for example. What she told him would have meant little if Pilkington hadn’t called. When Pilkington did call, though, Wendy’s information told Michaelson that he should try to talk to Jerry Marciniak before his meeting with Pilkington.
    Michaelson arranged to do this early Friday morning. Very early.
    â€œNinety percent of science is waiting,” Marciniak said without looking up from the microscope when Michaelson appeared in the lab’s doorway.
    â€œSo is ninety percent of getting to see you,” Michaelson said. “That and getting out of bed before dawn.”
    â€œThis baby’s not ready to tell us anything yet,”