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kind of job that could be done behind one’s desk or in meetings, and an adjustment would have to be made. Well, if he needed a jolt, this qualified.
    The room was completely blank. White walls, no mirrors, no cameras, no tricks that he could see. After five minutes he tried the door and found it locked.
    No one came, and in the bare stillness of the room he waited. Hammer was never truly at rest. In quiet moments, in meetings, in conversations that didn’t demand his full attention he tapped out rhythms, twirled pens, doodled on documents. His fingers kept pace with his thoughts. Now they beat an impatient, quickening tattoo on the desk.
    His clothes were replaceable, his computer well protected—it would take a government to get inside. If they returned his wallet, which they’d graciously let him recover and then instantly taken, at least he’d have access to money. And medication he guessed he could replace. Presumably Georgians got depressed—God knows they had reason to. All he had lost was his passport, and time the one thing he couldn’t control. Six days he had, and the first one, at least, lost to poor planning and bad luck. How long could one go missing in the bureaucracy of Georgia? Weeks perhaps, being processed, interviewed, forgotten.
    Still no one came. Without any hope of a response he banged on the door and shouted, in English, Georgian, and Russian. Hello. Gamarjobat. Pazhalsta. Outside he could hear rushing footsteps and doors slamming and distant shouting, and somehow knew that in here he wasn’t a priority.
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    S ix o’clock in London. The office would be beginning to wind down. Ordinarily he’d be watching them leave, waving the occasional good night from his office, thinking about his run home, wondering what Mary had leftfor his supper. Except not tonight, of course. Tonight he’d have been adjusting his tie and checking his shoulders for dandruff, maybe brushing his teeth clean of coffee and the residue of the day’s talking before heading out to meet the perfectly nice Barbara Reynolds—a drink at the Connaught and then dinner at that overpriced place round the corner where you paid to watch the preening and the strutting. Not quite a blind date, because they had met once, at the Goulds’, but as good as. An interesting woman, a good woman, but a little earnest. Not quick with the jokes, at least not that evening. Even without the whole jail sentence thing on his mind it would have taken him a while to warm the evening up, and he had been relieved to have a good reason to cancel, but God, how good it looked now, sitting in a cell without so much as a window or a glass of water. He’d have settled for warm beer and a conversation about the growing incidence of death among one’s friends.
    At the two-and-a-half-hour mark the door opened and a man in a bad gray suit came in. He had a bouncing walk and a slight frame at odds with a round, young, heavy face. Skinny pudgy, thought Hammer; office-bound but gym-fit, like that sidekick of Sander’s. His thin lips and jutting chin made him look as if he was clenching his teeth, and Hammer wondered whether it was an affectation intended to make him look mean. His eyes helped. They were small and animal and a little too close, and they looked at Hammer from the first as if it was important to stare him into compliance. He was the kind who strove too hard for effect.
    Hammer stood and offered his cuffed hand. Thrown by the courtesy, the man looked at it for a moment, then sat down without shaking it.
    â€œSit,” he said.
    â€œThank you,” said Hammer, smiling his most winning smile. This was a tactic, built on an inclination. It made sense to treat people with respect, if only to disarm the ones who weren’t expecting it.
    The man crossed his legs, made sure that Hammer knew he was comfortable, and gave him a long, appraising look, continuing to