“I know, you’re a United States senator. Bully, bully. Well, look, I just figured I’d be nice and let you know what’s on my mind, okay? You get this diamond before I get it myself or you give me something else I can use to pin it down, we’re square. I got commitments, you know, creditors barking up my ass. You don’t want me sitting down in Florida forever, do you? Well, help me out.” He grinned, setting his plastic container and fork on a butler’s table. “But if you can’t, I guess you might have my bones rattling around in your closet for a long, long time.”

“Sergeant, you’re not being fair.” Ryder was close to hyperventilating. “If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even know about the Minstrel. And as I told you, there’s absolutely no guarantee it even exists. It’s not worth the risk to you or to me-”

“I want the stone,” Bloch said. “And I’ll get it, with your help, Lieutenant, or without.”

Ryder was panting, obviously horrified by what the sergeant proposed. Bloch watched the former platoon leader try to figure a way out, to distance himself from the very events he’d put into motion so that later on he could deny any involvement on his part. He’d seen that look a thousand times over the years.

“I can’t help you,” the senator said.

“Sure you can.” Bloch rose, feeling full and confident. “You’re the Golden Boy, Sammy. You can do anything.”

Matthew’s Federal townhouse, simple but elegant, was a surprise, until Juliana remembered LZ. It was easy to forget that the dark, cynical reporter had produced a bestselling novel, and she made a mental note to stop at a bookstore as soon as she could and buy a copy. After all, he’d been to one of her concerts. Because of Samuel Ryder, she reminded herself, not because of you.

She slowed as she came to the front stoop. There was no front yard, and the steps ended on the brick sidewalk. The street was tree-lined and narrow, very picturesque and European; Juliana thought Aunt Willie might actually approve. Over breakfast that morning she’d complained about her niece’s German coffee maker, and Juliana had lectured her about West German democracy, the wrongness of collective guilt, the countless wonderful Germans she’d met over the years. Aunt Willie had merely grunted and said, “What do you know of the world?”

What indeed. She’d had no comeback.

As she mounted the steps, two men came up behind her, and she stiffened, turning and looking madly for a place to run. There was none, except inside. But the polished wood door was shut tightly. She paused on the second step and felt the breath go out of her. One of the men was dark-skinned and stocky, powerful, young; the other was curly-haired and very thin, also young. They wore heavy sweaters rather than coats, and no hats or gloves.

“Excuse me,” Juliana said, “I must have the wrong address-”

“What’s your name?” the darker one asked.

“J.J.”

“J.J. what?”

“Pepper.” She wished Len were here, or even Shuji with one of his short swords. “But I must be going.”

“You looking for Matt Stark?”

“Who?”

“I’ll bet he’s the type who goes for a hot number like you.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea-”

She stopped, and the darker one smiled. But he wasn’t the one who’d pulled out the gun. The curly-haired one had. Juliana didn’t know anything about guns except that she didn’t want one aimed at her.

“We want you to give Matt a message.”

The darker one was still talking. She focused on him so she wouldn’t have to look at the gun. “Okay,” she said, and hated how small her voice sounded.

He bent down close to her face, and she could feel the heat of his breath and see the tiny red veins in his eyes. “Tell him to back off,” he said, each word distinct. “Tell him Phil Bloch says so.”

She nodded. “All right.”

“Say it back to me.”

Years and years of solfeggio and memorizing countless pieces had left her with an acute ear. “‘Tell him to back off…Tell him Phil Bloch says so.’”

“Good.”

She waited for them to leave, but they lingered, watching her as she debated whether to bolt past them or to scramble into the house. She didn’t have a key, didn’t know if the door was locked, didn’t know if Matthew were there. Had he already left for the Gazette?

The darker one raised his left arm.

“No-”

But it came crashing down, swiping her across the side of the head. The blow sent her sprawling backward against the steps and crashing into the wrought-iron rail. She yelled as pain exploded in her shoulder and started to grab it, but he snatched her wrist and twisted it behind her back. She ignored the shooting pain in her shoulder and he tightened his grip. Don’t break my wrist…dear God, don’t let him do it!

“Just want him to know the sergeant’s serious.”

He released her.

She collapsed on the steps without making a sound and didn’t even attempt to look back. She didn’t want to know anything more about them; she didn’t care where they were going or what they were doing.

My wrist…

You jackass, never mind your damned wrist! The sons of bitches didn’t kill you, did they?

But she cradled her wrist in her other hand, focusing all her terror on it, and examined the bruise. There was no serious damage. She shut her eyes, shaking all over. The pain in her shoulder was already beginning to subside. You’re all right, she told herself; you’re all right.

Matthew? Had they hurt him?

Behind her, the front door opened. She whirled around, terrified, but saw instantly it was Stark. He rushed down the steps and scooped her up, and she was glad for the warmth and solidness of him.

“It’s all right, Juliana,” he said.

“All right? All right?” She pushed him away and noted he was in perfect health, looking tough and competent but not at all pleased to see her. “Goddamnit, it is not all right!”

His black eyes narrowed, taking in her hard breathing and frightened, angry look. “Good, you’re not hurt.”

“In the great, grand scheme of things, no, I am not. No thanks to you, I’m sure. What did you do, watch through the window?”

“Pretty much.”

“Thanks a lot.” Then she noticed his gun, a big ugly thing. “You had a gun? Jesus Christ, why the hell did you wait? Were you waiting for them to blow my head off?”

“I didn’t want to start firing when there was no need.”

“No need-”

“You could have gotten hit in the cross fire.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want to go inside?”

Feeling calmer, she said, “If you don’t mind.”

He led the way. They went back to his kitchen, a cheerful, cluttered room with white cabinets and white tab curtains hanging in a window that overlooked a terrace. A couple of dead plants sat outside on the cold bricks. Aunt Willie would have had a fit. A battered pine table stood in front of the window, piled with copies of various newspapers-the Post, the Times, the Christian Science Monitor-and the most recent issue of Motor Trend. There were dirty dishes in the sink and two empty Sam Adams beer bottles on the counter.

“Need ice?” Stark asked.

She shook her head, which hurt, but not as much as it might have. “Did you know those men?”

“Not personally.”

“They asked me to give you a message from Phil Bloch. He’s a sergeant, I think they said. Did you know him in Vietnam?”

Matthew got two beers out of the refrigerator, opened them both, and handed her one. He took a gulp of his and sat down as he swallowed it. “Yes.”

“You know, I’ve lived in New York all my life, and I’ve never been mugged, robbed, assaulted, or even seriously threatened.”

“That’s because you’re a rich girl,” he said.

“Well-off. I know rich girls.”

“Have some beer, Juliana.”

“I don’t usually-” She sighed, cutting herself off, and tried the beer. She knew Sam Adams was supposed to be high-quality beer, but it still tasted like beer to her. “You’re very calm, you know. I just got assaulted on your doorstep, and you’re not even upset.”