The body was, as anticipated, bare of identity.

Almost.

One packet contained a small wadded bit of paper. The dead man probably was unaware it was there. Lang spread it out on the cold marble of the floor next to the body, squinting in the stingy light.

"I suppose you found the lad's driving permit. Maybe his national health card." Jacob was peering over his shoulder.

Lang held it up. "Too faded to read, some kind of a card. A receipt, perhaps?"

Jacob sniffed. "Not likely the chit from the dining room at the Dorchester." He leaned closer, taking it in his hand. "Looks like… like part of a boarding pass."

"A boarding pass?"

"Yes." He turned to catch a different angle of light. "See, you can make out a date and a flight number."

"Swell. Now all we have to do is match an airline with it. Should be no more than a thousand or so scheduled carriers to check."

Jacob handed it back to Lang. "Your bleedin' gratitude is humbling. It's a sight better than nothing."

But not much.

II.

#17 Paul Street

Wapping

London

1906 Hours

Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam had expected the call ever since the immigration people had called him yesterday.

The American, Langford Reilly, was back in London. Every time Mr. Reilly had visited London, some sort of mayhem followed as surely as a contrail behind a jet aircraft. That was why the inspector had a standing request to be notified when Mr. Reilly's passport was swiped through the machine at Heathrow or Gatwick or he appeared under some other name on the face-recognition technology. Admittedly, Mr. Reilly had always been cleared of any crime but he bore watching just the same.

And now, like the bad penny, he was back.

Someone was going to die.

After finishing dinner and settling in front of the telly, Fitzwilliam had dared hope this once Mr. Reilly would depart the UK without coming to the attention of the police. After all, Reilly had been observed visiting some medical supply houses, no doubt on behalf of his foundation, and tonight seemed harmless enough, some affair at the British Museum. With any luck at all, the damn Yank would go back to wherever it was he came from before the bodies started piling up.

But that faint wish had evaporated like smoke the minute the telephone clattered.

A robbery and kidnapping?

Two casualties, one a guard employed by the museum and the other one of the kidnappers? He was less than surprised to learn the latter had died by Reilly's hand. And Sir Eon Weatherston-Wilby was apparently kidnapped. One of the country's best-known philanthropists.

The media would be on this like another scandal at Buckingham Palace. The difference was that Scotland Yard didn't get pressure when one of the royals acted like Euro- trash.

The inspector felt a migraine coming on, that headache that only Langford Reilly seemed to precipitate.

He got up with a resigned sigh and went to the hall closet. Through the Sheetrock, he could hear the Wilsons arguing again on their side of the semidetached.

"Going out, dear?" Shandon, his wife, asked from the kitchen. "Will you be long?"

"I doubt I'll be any shorter," he replied glumly, the hoary joke they shared.

His mood was not improved when he had to wait a good quarter hour for Patel, his immediate assistant and driver, to pull to the curb. As usual, the man had filled the small BMW with the smell of curry. Nor did Fitzwilliam's disposition improve when the dark face broke into its perpetual grin as though the man enjoyed having his evenings interrupted.

"The British Museum, sah?"

Fitzwilliam swallowed a retort, realizing it would be lost on Patel. "Yes, yes. The museum."

Two blocks of Great Russell Street and Montague Place were blocked off with yellow crime scene tape as was all of Russell Square. Floodlights illuminated the small park with a harsh glare, the edges of which blended into the blue and red flashes of police cars. If anyone in Bloomsbury didn't already know a crime had been committed, they had to be blind and deaf.

Inside, the uniforms had prevented anyone from leaving, a splendid case of securing the barn door long after the horse's departure. Two policemen were seated at a small table in the great court, taking names and addresses of possible witnesses whose interviews would consume days.

"Where's Mr. Reilly?" Fitzwilliam asked one of the constables at the door.

The man pointed, "Right over there, sir."

Fitzwilliam had never seen the man in person before but recognized him from his image on the cameras at Heathrow as well as at least one wanted poster from a foreign country. He watched as a short, redheaded woman in a police uniform took down whatever was being said.

The American was not as tall as the inspector had imagined, shy of two meters. Dark hair with dove wings of silver brushed over the ears. His tuxedo had obviously been tailored; it fit him perfectly. He seemed intent on what he was saying, completely unruffled by killing a man. With a spear, if Fitzwilliam's information was correct.

The man next to him was the Jewish barrister, Annulewitz, pipe in his mouth despite the no smoking signs. Shorter, balding and going to fat. Fitzwilliam had gotten the impression the relationship between the two exceeded a professional one. It had been outside Annulewitz's flat that Reilly had once killed two anonymous thugs, although the fact was never proved. A couple of years later, Reilly had escaped from Annulewitz's law office at the Temple Bar leaving Fitzwillam's men looking foolish indeed.

Lang was just finishing his third recitation of the evening's events when a man in a worn tweed jacket wandered over, the only man he could see without either a tux or a police uniform.

"Inspector Dylan Fitzwilliam," the stranger introduced himself.

Lang extended a hand. "Lang Reilly."

The inspector glanced at the extended hand as though it might explode and stuck his own into his jacket pockets. "I'd appreciate you walking me through what happened."

The man's tone implied he was giving an order, not asking a favor.

"Sure." Lang pointed. "The table where those two police officers are taking names was in the room between here and the Reading Room. Eon was standing-"

"You mean Sir Eon Weatherston-Wilby."

What was the thing the Brits had about titles? Maybe it was the only part of their former nobility that was still noble rather than ammunition for the tabloids.

Lang finished his narrative.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to take me to room four, the Egyptian exhibit."

Again, more of an order than a request.

A photographer was finishing up taking pictures of a chalk outline on the floor. A janitorial employee, mop in one hand, bucket in another, was waiting to remove what was now a congealed black puddle of blood. The wreckage of the chariot had already been removed, presumably to wherever the museum did restorations.

Fitzwilliam rested an elbow in the palm of one hand while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the other. "You attacked an armed man with only a spear?"

"I didn't have a lot of options."

"Why didn't you wait for the police like everyone else?"

Lang detected what could be a tone of accusation. "Because I didn't want them to get away with Eon. Sir Eon."

"Just what made you think they were going to take him farther than this building?"

Lang watched the photographer pack up his equipment. "Why would they take him from where he was otherwise?"

"But they were armed. What did you think you could do?"

Lang was getting irritated at what seemed pointless interrogation. "Ask the man your folks just peeled off the floor there."

Fitzwilliam caught the edge in the reply and changed the subject as well as location. "Let's take a look at the loading door, shall we?"